


My Heart Is A Beast And It's Come Here To Feast

by BadHidingSpot, paperdolls



Category: Captain America (Movies), Cloak & Dagger (TV 2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Runaways (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Atomic Gothic, Background Relationships, Bisexual Clint Barton, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Deaf Clint Barton, Depersonalization, Dinosaurs, Dissociation, Gaslighting, Gothic, Hallucinations, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Gert Yorkes, Jurassic Park References, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Minor Chase Stein/Gertrude Yorkes, Minor Clint Barton/Sam Wilson, Minor Kate Bishop/America Chavez, Minor Tandy Bowen/Tyrone Johnson, Missing Persons, NASBB2020, Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020, Past Character Death, Past Sam Wilson/Maria Hill, Psychological Torture, References to Depression, Science Experiment Bucky Barnes, Science Fiction, Setting- Maine, Suicidal Thoughts, brain washing, canon typical manipulation/mental, mention of police racism, mention of police violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 153,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadHidingSpot/pseuds/BadHidingSpot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdolls/pseuds/paperdolls
Summary: It's been seven years since Bucky Barnes disappeared and Steve Rogers will never stop mourning him. In a small town, just off the coast of Maine, Steve Rogers goes to the top of the lighthouse and screams his loneliness out into the darkness.And then something screams back.An Atomic Gothic fic about isolation, extinction, loneliness, and the terror of being known. Angst with a happy ending. Weird science including dinosaurs and other ancient beasts brought back to life in the modern world!Inspired by:Ray Bradburry'sThe FoghornandThe Beast From Twenty-Thousand Fathoms (1953)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. One: The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god. Wow. As is typical I have too much to say. This is fic so much, it's everything I've felt all year and more. I hope it makes you all feel something too and I hope it's good. I know it's weird, I know it's long, I know it's got niche comic book characters, but also I love it. And I love that I made it with so many amazing people. I want to thank my entire committee for making this fic the best it could be.  
> Thank you to my collab partner paperdolls for this incredible art! Thank you for choosing me and this weird little fic, thank you for understanding my distrust for birds, and thank you for this lovely art that Ray Harryhausen would be proud of.  
> Thank you to my betas and sensitivity readers!  
> FicHuntie for your input on themes and character dynamics. Thank you for sending me resources to use so I could expand on my symbolism.  
> Soulache my beautiful wife for your hilarious comments and making sure I finally saw all of the Oceans franchise. Here's to many many more fics together in the future my dear!  
> Peach, for all 8,000 commas and brackets that I misused, for every like you know filler word, for every plot hole, and for every sentence that was clearly too long JUST so I could hit word count.  
> Thank you to em_merp for always encouraging me and answering my many questions about ASL and deaf/hard of hearing. I love this Clint because you love this Clint. I would have been lost without all of your influence and cheerleading!  
> Seraphina for helping me write Jewish Barnes family! Thank you for your input and resources so I could write a proper mourning for Becca and the Barnes Family.  
> I can't imagine the mess this fic would have been without each of you. You made it _so good_!  
> And of course, thank you to the lovely Mods of the Not Another Stucky Big Bang for creating a much needed sanctuary during this year. I wouldn't have made it without this bang.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s so hard not to think of Bucky—so Steve allows it.
> 
> It’s March 10th, Bucky and Becca’s 30th birthday, and the first one Steve has spent alone. Winnie passed in late January—and just like that, Steve was the only soul left in McDunn, possibly anywhere, that remembered Bucky Barnes. It’s painful for Steve to know that once he dies, there will be no trace, no legend, of Bucky Barnes on this earth.
> 
> There are no ships, boats know better than to come this way by now; even though there is the occasional lost vessel, there are no people for miles. Steve is alone, and he feels it so deeply and keenly within him that he wants to scream.
> 
> The sun sets on Bucky’s birthday and Steve sits in the advancing darkness, just to find comfort there.

A heart should be weighed by the regrets it keeps. If Steve cut out his heart now and put it on Osiris’ scales, it would be too heavy to let him pass on. If he jumped into the sea now, with his heart still in his chest, it would sink him to the bottom and anchor him there. Steve wonders if Bucky would find him there, at the bottom of the ocean. Perhaps Bucky would even be waiting for him. Maybe he would greet Steve with a soft kiss and ask what took him so long.

The sun sets in McDunn today at exactly 6:42 PM. Steve googled it before he left the house this evening—he always googles it, just to confirm—but his mother’s Almanac is always right anyway. He walks the same path through McDunn every evening and early every dawn he walks back again. Today is a little different for Steve—it’s a little harder to pick his feet up out of the sand, wet and solid as it is between the red rocks. Steve is waiting, maybe, to see if the ground can swallow him up.

It doesn’t. His heart isn’t heavy enough to sink him on dry land. Bucky will have to wait longer. It’s a nice thought, though, one that makes Steve smile, the idea that Bucky would still be waiting for him after seven years. There was no one to wait for Steve in the world of the living. His ma had died so long ago. He used to have the Barnes family but now, with Winnie gone, Steve is the very last.

Steve finally makes his way towards The Diner—he doesn’t exactly have time to dally. He has forty minutes to get from his house down the beach to the top of the lighthouse so he can watch the sunset today. Steve almost always misses it nowadays—it’s not the same without Bucky and sooner rather than later he’ll have seen more sunsets without Bucky than with him.Today is different; this is one Bucky will forgive him for watching alone. Today he must watch, quietly, as the sun sinks into the water, taking all of the warmth and the bright pink sky with it.

Steve passes by his and Bucky’s old houses off of Nightshade and Halloway. He could change his route, make it a little less painful by avoiding the place where he and Bucky spent so many years together, but part of him believes that one day he’ll walk by and catch a glimpse of them, through time, Becky and Winnie, Sarah and Buck, all sitting on the back porch enjoying a traditional spring sunset. Steve never pictures himself with them—it feels strange, but he can’t remember himself well. Just Bucky, really, with perfect clarity.

Steve’s old house on Nightshade is dark—Janet and Chase are normally out of the house in the evenings anyway. It is a weekday, so it’s possible Chase has lacrosse practice that’s run until dusk. Steve passes it by, trying to remember the words to that song his mother always sang when making dinner. He can’t get the second verse just right.

He rounds the corner, makes his trajectory up Halloway Street, but finds the Barnes’ old house has new tenants already. He doesn’t see them, but their large moving van and the folks they hired to unload it are just now finishing up the last few boxes. Steve picks up his pace, would run if it didn’t seem so strange, and keeps his eyes dead ahead on the horizon. He’s not ready to see someone else’s furniture in Winnie’s living room. The house looks lonely without a Barnes in it.

Steve has always had the uncanny ability to know when he is alone. His mother used to say it was a function of the heart, because the heart is a mysterious beast, untamed and full of wonders. She told him because his heart was so big, had so much love to share, that when he was alone it sent out a beacon, a cry into the night. His heart was a part of hers, born from a drop of her blood and growing large and powerful inside of him. She was lonely too— she could understand it as a part of him syphoned off from that part of herself.

When his mother died, three in the morning in her bedroom at the end of the hall while Steve slept soundly in his childhood room, the feeling woke him the moment her last breath rattled out of her. It roused him from sleep, urgent and ungentle, and before he opened his eyes he knew that the only heart beating in their house was his own.

Steve decides to skip The Diner and his nightly coffee pick up. He was going to buy himself a slice of pie, something special to have while he watched the sunset. But something about the evening in general makes Steve feel like he can’t talk to anyone, can’t even directly look at them to order coffee, after facing the reality that there are no more Barneses and Steve is the last Rogers.

Skipping The Diner means taking a shortcut along the path by the trees and down a set of rocks that have naturally formed themselves into a staircase over the years. This way takes him behind the McDunn Fairgrounds, a staple in the town as much as the lighthouse, but, as far as he knows, not a beloved one.

The McDunn Fairgrounds look the way a floorboard creaks. In the daytime it was a pity— an old thing built with the purpose of bringing joy, now rusted and declared dangerous. But once the sun settled beneath it, sky an orange thick as hellfire, it was a mess of black shapes, gathering the darkness up all around it. It was common for kids to sneak in— when he and Bucky had been young there was a dare to sleep in the place all night. He and Bucky had tried twice, the first time Bucky being the one to chicken out and the second attempt being foiled by Bucky having his mom’s car for the night.

The only way up to the front gates was one winding cobblestone road not big enough for two cars to pass on at the same time. Bucky had parked the car at the gate and turned the engine off, but instead of climbing out to hop the fence he had instead climbed into the back seat and pulled at the hem of Steve’s shirt until he followed him. If there had been ghosts, murderers, or monsters in the dark shadowscape of crusted paint and molded wood, they’d let Steve and Bucky get away with more than just their lives on haunted ground. Although Steve called to god enough times that night to make it sacred ground, he’d still never ventured past the iron gate.

Steve gets to the bottom of the rock stairs, and turns his back on the carnival. To have it behind him and out of sight makes his steps lighter.

The lighthouse was built before the rest of the town, the rocks so dangerous and unyielding that even if there were no other buildings, there at least needed to be a lighthouse. Back then, ships did trade at Portland, more than thirty miles down the coast from McDunn, but ships would still lose themselves and crash into the rocks. If anything, the lighthouse was built in a desperate attempt to keep outsiders away. And yet still the town grew up around it, building houses and restaurants, reaching a nice population of just under eight hundred people, before ships finally stopped taking routes that put them in the path of McDunn.

Steve unlocks the entrance and makes his little spiral climb up the stairs with his eyes closed—he could probably make the walk from his home to the lighthouse with his eyes closed. Not to The Diner though—too many cars to risk it.

He puts his hand on the doorknob, keeps his eyes closed until he pushes the door open. It’s still twenty minutes until sunset, and he wishes he’d at least gotten his regular cup of coffee so he would have something to do during the wait. But this is a part of Steve’s life, staring out at the sea with nothing to do but watch for a ship that will never come.

It’s so hard not to think of Bucky—so Steve allows it.

It’s March 10th, Bucky and Becca’s 30th birthday, and the first one Steve has spent alone. Winnie passed in late January—and just like that, Steve was the only soul left in McDunn, possibly anywhere, that remembered Bucky Barnes. It’s painful for Steve to know that once he dies, there will be no trace, no legend, of Bucky Barnes on this earth.

There are no ships, boats know better than to come this way by now; even though there is the occasional lost vessel, there are no people for miles. Steve is alone, and he feels it so deeply and keenly within him that he wants to scream.

The sun sets on Bucky’s birthday and Steve sits in the advancing darkness, just to find comfort there. Steve should flip the light on, he will, but right now he feels too heavy to move. He wishes he could lighten the load on his heart, just a little, just for a brief moment after seven long years of feeling like this. He wishes he could open his mouth and let his soul leave his body— if only he could force it out.

There’s something beautiful and freeing about a good long scream into the night. So Steve leans out the window at the top of the lighthouse, bracing himself on the sill, then takes a deep breath from the bottom of his feet and spits it out into the dark loneliness. He screams for so long—the average human can scream for twenty seconds at the most, but it feels like hours—that his hands shake and his knees tremble. But he doesn’t stop; he needs to fill all the loneliness with some sign of life, even if it’s just a tormented scream into nothing. Even if it’s not loud enough to scare his soul out.

His knees buckle. He falls down but he doesn’t cry; he pants and waits for his breath to return to him. It is then, while he’s curled onto the floor, that he notices he doesn’t have the Feeling anymore.

He’s not alone. It isn’t that he doesn’t _feel_ alone—the ability is deeper and more mysterious than that. It’s that he _is not alone_ , up here in the lighthouse screaming for someone—for something.

He stands quickly, slipping a little in his eagerness, and he looks out at the sea—dark, now, like a bottle of spilled ink rising and falling in little waves—and searches for his companion. There is _someone_ out there, somehow, somewhere.

Steve tries to scream again, to bring them out, but he’s weak and his throat is too sore. He’s overdone it. Bucky always told him he burns too hot too quickly, never leaving himself anything for later. Steve feels helpless, breathless, and desperately tries to muster up the strength now to call out. But he can’t.

So he does something he really shouldn’t do—he should only pull the foghorn to warn a ship. But Steve doesn’t care—this feels more important than that. He needs to call out—he needs to know why he is no longer alone. He doesn’t turn the light on in the nest, the darkness of the room keeping Steve’s reflection off the glass so he can see into the night better. He finds the pulley by touch alone, like the stairs he doesn’t need his eyes for it.

The foghorn feels familiar; loud and beast-like as it is, it reminds him exactly of his scream, and feels like an echo of it, rattling off the rocks back at him.

_Come back_ , it says, _I am alone_.

When the sound of the foghorn dies away, there’s a heavy ten seconds before Steve hears a response. It shakes him, not emotionally but physically, literally; the lighthouse, tall and powerful stone that has withstood decades of storms—nigh on a century almost—vibrates from the noise. It feels as if the noise starts from the root of the lighthouse and slithers upwards, making the building tremble on the way up.

It is familiar and unknown. Steve can’t quite place what it is, the sound itself and the experience of hearing it—the dreaded feeling of knowing that he is maybe the first to hear it in a long time—is just like with his uncanny knowing of his own aloneness. That’s a scream with a soul in it— with life fighting to stay or to leave but unable to decide. Unfinished and in pain— alive within its own isolation.

He looks into the dark sea only after the noise stops, once the lighthouse feels steady and immovable beneath him again. He searches the line of the sea, a small moon offering barely any light to the ocean but doing what she can for Steve anyhow. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see; the logical part of his mind says maybe a ship, or a swimmer, hailing him for help. But the light isn’t on—he should turn the light on! He tells himself that it’s to hail the ship, just in case, that there is nothing wrong with turning on the light just in case, even if there isn’t a storm. But inwardly, Steve knows it’s to aid him in locating the source of the noise. Before he can move to do it, the beast rises up.

Its neck is long—not like a swan’s, exactly, more like a mallard—and its snout is slender to match, without being a beak. He can’t see its mouth so well, not until the beast begins to lower itself into the water.

Steve can’t let it get away; he has to see it, really truly see it. He grasps at the pull cord for the light and the bulb fires up too slowly; Steve panics as the thing lights up like Edison has only just invented it.

He looks out at the sea again and sees spikes on the beast’s back and a whip-like tail flicking water away. He tries to scream at it again, to lure it up out of the water, back from the fathoms from whence it came, but his voice is still too hoarse and ragged, all used up in the pain of being without Bucky for yet another year. The years without Bucky are piling on top of each other, will one day grow higher than the count of years _with_ him. Soon, they could stack up against this lighthouse, maybe against the beast out in the depths itself. But not even that sadness sitting heavy in his chest can raise Steve’s voice again enough to whisper, let alone shout.

The foghorn. Steve moves to it much slower than he did the light, slower than when he pulled it before. The foghorn, the sound, feels different this time, somehow. As Steve rests his hand on the pull he feels deep within his bones that this, what he is about to do, is too important to be rushed.

It is now not a question of _if_ the foghorn will work, will call out to the beast and bring it forth again, but _when_ , and what will happen after that. Steve doesn’t know, how can he? How can anyone? But he knows it with that uncanny certainty. Like a man with his hand on the red button, Steve pulls the lever back and feels a pulse ripple out, not from the horn but from the center of him where his heart anchors him down.

This time he notices that the foghorn rattles the lighthouse in the exact same way, only from the inside out rather than the other way around. This is a call from the deepest roots of the building, where the regrets sit and gather, pouring and devouring the life it’s attached to.

The beast rises again and with the light now spinning and shining on it, Steve can see the snout that opens into a row of sharp teeth. It puts Steve in mind of the alligators he’s seen wrestled in the past. Bucky was always pulling him to sideshows like that: see real live gator wrestling, see an alien lifeform, behold the cursed mummy’s tomb. Bucky loved those beyond belief wonders—Bucky would love this beast.

She’s a dark green—Steve decided she’s a her when he realized that’s what Bucky would have said. He’d call her a pretty beauty and everything until he heard otherwise, and maybe not even then. The water slides off of her like droplets on a duck’s back and Steve wonders if she can fly. But that is, somehow, too fantastical to believe, and he lets the thought go. If she could fly, if she could leave, she surely would have. She was alone—he knows that’s why his calling had brought her here.

She turns her eyes to Steve and stares at him—or, more accurately, at the windows of the lighthouse where the light keeps spinning and flashing at her under the pale moon. Steve can only catch glimpses of her when the light comes round. But she doesn’t move or change much—every time the light hits her Steve sees the same thing, the dark eyes in the center of a viridian green face, glistening with salt water and holding still for him. She was so deep in the sea, and she had risen just for him. She wants to be seen.

That’s why he turns the light off. He can’t give her what she wants, and she can’t give him what he’s looking for either. He wants Bucky, that other heart beating close to his own, calling out to Steve’s from years ago. She wants someone of her own kind, someone with the tall stature of the lighthouse, with the same sad longing as the foghorn, someone to dive deep and live with in peace. She will have to dive down alone again, but at least with the light off she won’t be waiting for immovable stone to follow her.

She sinks again, one final cry goodbye, one last request that the lighthouse follow her, that Steve sink with her into the depths, that they make a home and a life together.

It’s sad enough to break his heart again. He sinks to the floor of the lighthouse, curls into a ball, and cries until he falls asleep. Bucky’s name is on his lips—Bucky’s name always is.

*

Bucky isn’t the same after Becca dies. For one thing, Steve never hears him refer to her as “Bex” again. It used to be the only thing he called her, a sacred name, one that had to be left unspoken once that empty casket hit the dirt. Bucky was the only one who called her that anyway, so when she was laid to rest the nickname was too—not even Steve dares to utter it. Bucky has started using “Becca” or “Becky” now. Maybe it isn't a conscious decision. Maybe it’s something instinctive, inside of Bucky, an expression of mourning that he can’t make consciously. Maybe Bucky feels that saying her name would keep her from passing on— to say it is to selfishly keep her in the world of the living.

Years ago, Steve cried into Bucky’s warm body after his mother had died— Bucky had been steady, and warm, and had made things easier. He had so much to say, such a sadness filling him up like a hole in the hull of a ship, that it had to spill into Bucky. Bucky, who kept Steve’s ears near his heartbeat so he had a steady sound to anchor him.

Steve wants to return the favour, not just to Bucky but Winnie too, who made him casseroles and tea. Sarah gifted her recipe box to Winnie in her last few weeks, and Winnie made Steve one dessert from it a week for over half a year until she had completed every recipe in there.

He owes it to Becca also, to whatever remains of her spirit in the world that can sense pain and grief in the hearts of those who love her. Unlike Winnie who spoke in food or Bucky in silent touches, Becca alone knew what to say. Steve would speak to her, ask questions, leave long silences and she would fill them up and in doing so also fill the cracks in his heart. The right words during grieving are hard, some would even say elusive, but Becca had no platitudes, no bumper stickers to trivialize his mourning. She had words, always the right ones, always sincere. She spoke to him the way Sarah used to when he felt lost in the world.

They had carried him through his grief. It wasn’t just one of them, and none more than the others. They were a family. But they were three to his one, and he doesn’t know that he can juggle two— but he _must_ so he does.

Part of that is knowing when his own presence hinders healing— what moments are sacred, like a nickname or a recipe marked with little silver star stickers to note favorites. There will be many more sacred moments for Bucky and Winnie in the coming days, week, month.

Steve finds Bucky on the beach after the funeral, after the vigil— Steve hasn’t seen him in over a day. It was hard to leave him, and Winnie, but Steve understood it was a pain they could only share with each other. He didn’t want to impose on their grieving. Bucky’s shoes, socks, and black dress coat are strewn on the dirty rocks. Steve thinks the red stains from the rocks have always looked a little like blood, and it hurts him to imagine such a thing: Bucky a lifeless piece, cast against the rocks, his funeral attire stained a dusty red that runs too dark.

The golden hour is long over but Steve wonders how long Bucky’s been out here. He’s scooping up sand in his hand and then letting it fall through the cracks between his fingers. The cuffs of his dress pants are rolled all the way up to his knees. As soon as Steve gets close enough to do so, he runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, digits tugging at the tangles the wind has left it in. Bucky leans back into Steve’s pull, enough to tilt his head back and gaze up into Steve’s eyes. He’s been crying. Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s forehead— Bucky closes his eyes to receive it and only opens them again when he brings his chin down to look at the grey sky that crowns the horizon.

As Steve takes his shoes off—resting his hand on the back of Bucky’s shoulder for balance—he thinks about how ridiculous it is that even Bucky’s calves are sexy. Steve finds it hard to resist the urge, often, to bite Bucky in all the places on his body where it curves and slopes. Steve wants to sink his teeth in and never leave—a parasite forever attached to Bucky, the way angler fish mate in the briny deep.

Steve finds his socks a little harder to get off one handed than his loafers. He keeps his palm in between Bucky’s shoulder blades to anchor both of them.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Steve says and when Bucky shrugs one shoulder Steve sways a little from the motion. He puts his feet down in the sand and rolls his own pant legs up.

“You know it costs the same amount to bury an empty casket as it does a full one?” Bucky tells him, tossing his handful of sand back into the ground rather than letting it slip softly. “That’s ten grand. Would have been cheaper to cremate nothing.”

“I think that’s just buying an empty urn.” Steve sits down next to him and rubs his shoulder against Bucky’s, trying to create friction and warmth between them—Bucky must be cold out here; Steve can see him shivering.

“Exactly,” Bucky scoffs. “Urn is only seventy dollars. Cremating a body is a hundred times that.”

“So why didn’t you?” Steve asks, and he can tell that Bucky hates the question by the way he prickles up, his fingers digging deep into the wet sand. If only Steve could attach himself to Bucky by the teeth, grab hold of him like a barnacle and never let go—they’d have to scrape Steve off of Bucky with a knife to separate them.

“Trying not to fight with Ma about anything right now,” Bucky admits, ashamed, and Steve can’t quite place why. He puts his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls him in closer. “Becca wouldn’t want us spending all that if there’s no body,” Bucky sighs, “but she’d cave to mom if it were me.” Bucky twists himself down and around just so he can tuck himself into Steve. The angle can’t possibly be very comfortable for him, so Steve is sure he won’t hold it for long, but it feels nice to have Bucky pressed against him.

“Don’t talk about that,” Steve warns him; he can’t go in circles with Bucky over this again.

“Mom almost asked me to go, I was faking sick in the bathroom so I didn’t have to,” Bucky says like he’s imploring Steve, like he needs Steve to see reason, join him in believing that it really is Bucky’s fault.

“What would you want me to say to her?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s shoulders relax. “If you had gone and she was sitting here talking like that?”

“‘Turn around, Becca, I’m about to fuck your brother’s ghost’,” Bucky says, quick as a whip, which suggests to Steve that he was planning that one. He knew all the ways Steve would try to comfort him.

Steve laughs and pulls Bucky closer, until he’s in Steve’s lap, wrapping his arms and legs around him, molding himself to Steve like a decorative figurehead, painted gold and varnished daily. Steve hugs him back, settling his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, and looking for a bright streak of sunlight to break the grey clouds.

Bucky clears his throat after a few minutes and Steve pulls back to look at him. “Can we turn around?” Bucky asks, “I want to watch the sky over the water.”

“What am I supposed to watch?” Steve protests even as he stands, lifting Bucky up and turning them around before lowering them to the sand again.

“So strong,” Bucky sighs, snuggling tight into Steve’s body, his nose pressed into the crook of his neck as he takes in breaths too deep to be _just_ about oxygen. “Can’t go a minute without showing off, Rogers.”

“Trying to impress a fella, just go with it.” Steve runs his free hand through Bucky’s hair, top to bottom, always stopping at the nape of his neck to feel how warm it is there. Bucky runs so hot they don’t spend half as much as everyone else in town does for heat. Steve’s never felt cold with Bucky around him.

“Everything is going to be sadder now.” Bucky’s voice shakes a little and when Steve feels a warm drop on his shirt he knows Bucky is crying. “Holidays and birthdays. Big events. We get married and she won’t be there and we’ll _know_ ,” Bucky sobs, crying so hard already it must have been waiting to burst out of him. “We’ll know she isn’t there.”

“Maybe she will be,” Steve offers, meaning that he thinks she’ll be with them in spirit. Her memory will be around them, and it will feel like Becca is with them. All those reasonable things people say when someone dies—when trying to face the inconceivable fact of her absence.

Bucky takes it another way.

“She could come back,” Bucky says, believing it so deeply that it breaks Steve’s heart to hear his certainty. “She wouldn’t do that. Just walk off. She wouldn’t leave us. She’d say something. We would let her go.” Steve wants to tell him to stop torturing himself, but he’s had this conversation with Bucky so many times before now that he’s prepared to let it play out this time. Maybe it will sooth Bucky, make him see reason, to hear it out loud. “We weren’t keeping her here,” Bucky explains, like Steve doesn’t know. “We wouldn’t ever force her to stay. If she wanted to go, she could have.”

Steve pulls them apart, just far enough to gaze into Bucky’s eyes, grey and painful like a storm dying in the horizon—never breaking land before dispersing out at sea. “I know,” Steve says. “It wasn’t because of you.”

Bucky nods his head, heavy and a little begrudging, but a nod nonetheless, and Steve presses their foreheads together. Bucky closes his eyes and takes long, slow breaths so Steve does the same.

The sun is higher over the clouds by the time they open their eyes again— finding small spots in the clouds to push through— they look like swords of lights piercing through. Steve and Bucky breathe in synchronization, feeling their pulses match through the places their skin touches. Steve’s heart is born out of Sarah’s— and Bucky’s has always had Becca’s to beat with, their drop of blood splitting into two hearts. Without Sara or Becca, they only have each other’s heartbeats to dance with, to fall into synchronicity.

Bucky says something, or starts to, and it catches in his throat. It takes two sobs to rattle it out, but once he’s free of it Bucky speaks with the conviction of a man in grief. “There’s nothing in the world that could make me leave you, Steve,” Bucky promises, holding Steve’s face in his hands; the sand sticking to Bucky’s palms rubs off into Steve’s beard. “You hear me? Not without telling you. I’d tell you.”

“What if you can’t help it, Buck?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Then I’ll come back.”

“Bucky—”

“Nothing on this earth is gonna keep me from you.” Bucky presses his forehead to Steve’s. “Not death. Nothing. You’re never gonna get rid of me.”

Steve nuzzles Bucky’s face, turning it so he can kiss his cheek softly. “You better swear,” he whispers.

“Cross my heart,” Bucky says, making the little X over his chest on the wrong side for the heart, but then getting it right when he reaches over and crosses Steve’s heart too.

One of the streams of sunlight falls over them, before it rolls off with the rest of the blanket of clouds. It lights Bucky up beautifully, a split second that Steve memorizes and holds inside, buried where Bucky made the X over his heart.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing, my children, the runaways and cloak and dagger.

It causes a commotion. Of course it does. Steve isn’t sure why, when he wakes up the next morning, salt and sea air sticking to him on only one side of his body—the part he left exposed to the cold—he could have thought there wouldn’t be a commotion over such a thing.

He climbs up from the floor and dusts himself off as best he can. He runs his fingers through his beard and hair, trying to give them some sense of grooming, before he climbs down the stairs and exits his post. There’s a line of people, locals mostly, that Steve recognizes but has never seen out this far into the reef—nor this early in the morning. It must only just be past six and he can see kids out and about like Chase Stein. That kid is never up before noon—not on a weekend and not on school days either. 

It isn’t the first sign something is different—the first sign is _everything_ about the morning. The first sign is _everyone_ in town that Steve can recognize (and some folks he can’t) lined up on the beach. Chase is just one fraction of a hundred piece puzzle signalling that last night was not something Steve experienced alone.

He approaches Chase—who lives in Steve’s old house on Nightshade, the one that shares a backyard with Winnie’s place. Steve found he couldn’t live in it without Bucky or Sarah there. Steve sold it to Janet and moved himself permanently into the lighthouse keeper’s cottage: a nice two bedroom up the road off the beach. 

After Janet’s husband vanished, she had begun to call on Steve to fix things around the old house. “You just know it so well,” she’d reasoned; he smiled kindly at her and ignored her advances while still always returning to fix the sink or clean the gutters. Chase, possibly, thinks of Steve as some kind of free working landlord. In truth, Steve just likes to be in his home again, the one he grew up in and shared with both his mother and the Barneses. Chase is always polite to Steve, even seems to like seeing him from time to time when they pass in town. Chase is also quite helpful.

“Chase?” Steve says by way of greeting. He’s about to ask the kid what’s going on, as if Steve needs to play dumb on behalf of The Beast for some reason, but Chase beats him to the punch.

“Cap, did you see it?” Chase asks in a hushed tone, pulling Steve away and back towards the door of the lighthouse. “You were in there all night?”

“That’s the idea,” Steve replies. “That is literally the job, Chase.”

“But that means you saw it, right?” Chase seems shaky, and he keeps glancing out at the sea and the people on the beach like he’s looking for something to happen suddenly. “Like _actually_ saw it? Didn’t just hear it or catch it on shaky cam? You saw the actual thing, didn’t you? Bet you could from all the way up there.”

“Slow down, Chase,” Steve says, more of a request than to calm the boy’s clear anxiety—it’s somewhat too early for this. “Is that what all these people are doing out here?”

Chase nods. “Of course! All the fishermen saw it! I heard it—most everyone in town heard it. We heard the foghorn, too. Did you scare it off or something, Captain?”

“No,” Steve answers, a little numbly; he feels like all of this should seem stranger to him than it does. But he feels oddly calm. He’s even trying to decide what to order at The Diner for breakfast on his way home. Like it’s any other day for lighthouse keeper Steve Rogers, the Recluse of McDunn. “I was trying to see it better.”

“Did you get video? Alex says he got video but it was really dark. You can see it real clear in the youtube video, though. Like people took the footage and enhanced it so—”

“Who has seen it?”

“The Beast? Like in person, like you did, you mean? Or the video? Because _everyone_ has seen the video. It has over a million hits online.”

Steve blinks at Chase. All of this still doesn’t feel real, and it isn’t just because Steve doesn’t really get what going viral means. 

Chase seems to pick up on this and remember who he’s talking to. He points out to the horizon. “Everyone in the world has seen it—like this prehistoric dinosaur just rose up out of the sea. In the rocks, just like at Loch Ness or something. There’s all these people rushing to come to little old McDunn now. We’re going to see all kinds of folks.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, with worry in his voice. He pictures cameras flashing in the same crowd as flaming torches and pitchforks all coming for the Lady Bex. Steve isn’t sure when he named her—in his sleep, it would seem. He rubs his eyes, finding there’s still salt crusted into his hands— because these days there’s _always_ salt crusted into his hands— and tears up at the sting.

“What do you mean ‘am I sure’? That Rare Birds show on Trish Talk is coming here _right now_. Like, they’re supposed to arrive later this afternoon. They’re coming and everyone else who wants to do this story is coming.”

“I mean, will Mayor Jonah allow that? I know he and his staff don’t like a lot of attention. That’s why they picked McDunn,” Steve replies and leaves out the much crueler half of the truth, which is that this is why _everyone_ picks McDunn. Steve himself grew up here and yet he couldn’t leave it. It was too perfect, too off the map, too right for him and the way he lived his life now.

“It’s not going to matter if they allow it,” Chase assures him, laughing almost like he’s sad about it. “Maybe Jonah could prevent littler stuff. People coming in to do think pieces and fluff excerpts on the lighthouse. But this is different. This is _bigger_.” Chase looks deep into Steve’s eyes, a bit of fear twinkling in the corners of the boy’s eyes that he must be trying to push down—boys like Chase are always trying to push fear somewhere so it doesn’t push them. “This is a live dinosaur off the coast just a four hour drive from New York. Big networks are coming. There’s no putting this cat back in the bag.”

Chase puts his hands in his pockets and turns his head so far around Steve hears a crick in the kid’s neck. Chase hisses and reaches up to grab the spot. 

Steve shifts his weight back onto his feet—at some point he had begun to lean against the old concrete wall of the lighthouse. Sometimes his body found comfort in the place, whether Steve was aware of it or not. “Chase?” Steve asks, and the boy turns his attention to him again. “Are you looking for someone?”

Chase tries to shake his head, but the crick in his neck still prevails, hurting him so much he decides to drop the lie and just nod in the affirmative. Steve waits, not wanting to outright ask who he’s looking for, but deeply curious to know. 

“Just a friend,” Chase answers, quietly, “A girl. I thought she might be out here. But I don’t see her.” He sounds truly heartbroken that she isn’t here. 

It reminds Steve of the way the girls Bucky would dance with and leave hanging at the end of the night—all to crawl into bed with Steve at the end of it, but that didn’t make it any less mean in Steve’s eyes—would come and ask after him in the morning. Steve would have to tell them that Bucky wasn’t home, he was kind of a rolling stone, and listen as each one deflated to saying nothing more than a small, “Oh, I see”. Chase seems so sad, and it feels cruel to leave him like this, so Steve claps him on the back.

“I’m headed to get breakfast. Do you want to come with me? I’ll buy you waffles,” Steve offers. The kid smiles and he means it.

Chase takes one last look around for his lady love before he replies, “I’m more of a French toast guy. Is that all right?”

“Sure is, kid,” Steve tells him. “Tandy sells that at The Diner too.” Chase waits for Steve to move, to lead, and then falls in step with him. It reminds Steve of the mornings he spent walking to The Diner with Bex— after her regular morning swim in the warmer months or jog in the winter and Steve was walking back from his shift at the light house.

Years ago, Steve taught Chase how to ride a bike—lots of folks in McDunn come to the beach and the rocks to be alone and cry. It’s arguably the only attraction of the town: there’s a beach and some salty rocks you can cry on. Steve’s familiar with everyone who has come to the rocks at the base of the lighthouse and wept for one reason or another. He never says anything, never interrupts them. He feels it’s a private and vulnerable moment, not something that should be filmed and posted to youtube or wherever.

Chase had come to the beach three days in a row with a bike that he would throw into the sand, kick, and then plop down next to to cry. Finally, on the fourth day, Steve was down on the beach waiting for him. Chase could have left, but instead he had approached Steve, asked what he knew about bikes, and as Steve had shown him what to do he grew coldly angry with each new bruise he discovered the kid had—impossible for all or even some of them to be from a kid falling from a bike.

No one had seen Victor in years—people did that a lot in McDunn as well: disappeared. Possibly another thing Jonah had to push reporters away from the town about. There was suspicion at first that Steve had killed him—hid his body by chaining it into a secret cave only he knew about at the bottom of the rocks. That Steve had been having an affair with Janet Stein for years and he’d knocked Victor off so they could be together. There was no such cave, and years went by and Steve had still not moved back into his house to suddenly share the bedroom with Chase’s mom. Winnie had found the rumors amusing— she used to tell them to Steve to cheer him up during the investigation. Winnie had always been a dark humor type. 

A body never appeared, because the bodies never do, and the investigation was eventually dropped. Steve noticed that Chase’s mother never seemed to suspect, or disapprove of the possibility of, Steve murdering her husband. Chase never seemed to either.

So once in a while Steve bought the boy French toast or changed his oil for him. He liked to help out.

“Tell me about this girl you thought might be out here. I know her?” Steve asks, staying a couple of steps ahead of Chase and ignoring the turning heads and whispers that followed him. 

There are always whispers following Steve. He’s beginning to think of himself as something of an urban legend around the town: the salty old lighthouse keeper who murders fathers, husbands, and other respectable members of the community. Oh yes, there are many rumors now that Steve has killed all kinds of missing people in the town, including some that had happened before he was born. It had started out at least somewhat believable, just the people around Steve that seemed to die or go missing. Becky, his mother, Winnie, and eventually Bucky. Eventually, the deaths around Steve became conflated with the disappearances of the town and he became a scary story kids Chase’s age told to small children. Steve wonders if Chase hears the stories about Steve and laughs the way Winnie always did.

“She’s new in town. Kinda. She says she used to live here a long time ago, but her parents just moved back.” Chase seems like he’s about to say something he’s going to regret, only to stop himself at an awkward point between an inhale and scrambling to find a different topic. Steve saves him the trouble.

“Into the Barnes’ house, right?” Winnie has been dead for some time, cleaning out her house was hard—it felt wrong for Steve to do it. It felt like he should be helping Bucky, offering him comfort and soft kisses to the back of his neck while Buck struggled through the loss of his family the way Steve had after his ma passed. Steve had wanted to be that for him, had wanted to return the favor. But in the end he was alone, again, shifting through the beloved objects of a dead family.

Chase relaxes his shoulders. He knows it’s a soft spot for Steve, he must have been worried about bringing it up. Steve is proud of himself for not acting as cut up as he feels. It’s just a house, he reminds himself. It’s just a place— it doesn’t mean anything.

“That must be nice—being so close,” Steve offers, trying to make his voice cheery so Chase doesn’t feel he has to continue to stutter around the Barnes’ house issue. “You can show her around.”

“I want to, but she says her parents are really strict. That she’s, like, not allowed to go out yet.” 

Steve feels that rub him up the wrong way—the same way he did at Chase’s non-bicycle bruises—but he doesn’t say anything about it. Winnie taught him he can’t go into all things so hot headed—fists swinging and nothing else matters. Steve merely tucks it away as information he should keep an eye on. After all, perhaps the girl has asthma or a serious allergy. Steve wasn’t allowed out for the longest time as a child, his mother always fussing over his ailments. She had a right to fuss—Steve admits that easily, now, but he didn’t always appreciate it back then.

Steve recognizes that it’s different from when he and Bucky were kids anyway. There was much less to do inside back then. He and Bucky spent most of their time riding their bikes out to the docks and looking for trouble or work, whichever came first. Always sharing a chocolate milkshake at The Diner towards the end of the day; Bucky always picked a booth by the window so they could watch the people of McDunn pass by on their individual little journeys to nowhere. If Becca was working a shift she’d make sure both of them had solid food before they left.

Melissa Bowen owns The Diner now, having bought it just a year or so before her husband disappeared. The Diner—no fancier name than that. It’s one of only six restaurants in the town of McDunn, and Steve is worried that she and her staff might not be able to handle the commotion if what Chase had said is true, if all kinds of news outlets and looky-loos are about to start flocking to McDunn. Melissa and her daughter live in the house behind the church, just a seven minute walk to the restaurant.

Steve doesn’t see Melissa as often as he sees Tandy, her daughter, who busses tables and takes orders at The Diner more often than not. The Bowens are another family who have lost someone to the “McDisappearances” as the kids started calling them. Tandy’s father had been there one minute and gone the very next. He’d stepped out to get groceries, leaving Tandy sleeping in the car, and he never came back. It had been summer, and the car became too hot. Tandy would have died, they all said, if that Johnson boy hadn’t broken the back window of the Bowen sedan with a brick.

Because of that, Ty always eats at The Diner for free—and he does early and often, or at least whenever Tandy is working. Steve sees him almost anywhere he sees Tandy, both in and out of The Diner. Ty has his own little booth in the back, next to an outlet and with the best wireless signal, his books piled around him while he diligently works to stay a part of that private school in the next town over that his mother busted her ass to get him into.

Tandy is working the early shift this morning—Steve finds it a little sad that she isn’t able to go out to the beach like everyone else her age and, by extension, Ty doesn’t go either. Steve’s pretty sure Tandy’s the one who opens the restaurant everyday. Ty is always there before him; Steve is only just now realizing that he must wake up early and come to help Tandy open. The way they tell people, “that’s my best friend,” reminds Steve so much of how he and Bucky used to say it. Like the words had something deeper, more mystical to hold them together than when other people said it.

Ty’s brother Billy had disappeared the same day as Tandy’s father—an oddity even within the realm of McDunn vanishings. People disappeared often, but never more than one on the same day. Never, even, in the same week. It’s something, Steve thinks, that binds Ty and Tandy heart to heart, a red string tied between them in a reef knot holding them together. It’s why they’re always together, never willing to let the other out of their sight. Two sentries, forever on watch, neither willing to admit that they are the precious treasure the other must look after. Two amulets buried in the other’s chest, where X marks the spot. Steve can understand it more than most— the need to be near, to be watching, to make sure that the person you love doesn’t disappear like everyone else.

Tandy stops at Ty’s table on the way to Steve and Chase, pouring him another cup of coffee without being asked. Ty at least pretends to still be working on his homework, even as his eyes keep darting from the book to Tandy’s hand as she refills his mug. She sets the cup back down on the table—but does it as a plié to make Ty smile.

“We should go to the beach,” Ty suggests, folding his arms over the book and leaning on it, a clear sign it isn’t even a contender for his attention anymore. “Alex sent me the video. Let’s go at lunch.”

“What lunch? You see anyone here to cover my tables?” Tandy bumps his shoulder with her hip and reminds him, “You have school anyway.” 

“I don’t,” Ty counters. “They cancelled. Every school in a hundred mile radius is cancelled. Let’s go to the beach.” Steve wonders if either of them has made the same promise Bucky did, the one he couldn’t keep. He can picture Tandy holding Ty’s hand and swearing that he’ll never get rid of her. “You can lock up and put up a back in fifteen minutes sign,” Ty suggests.

“We’re not going to see anything.” Tandy pulls her cleaning towel out of her apron and politely lifts each of Ty’s books gently to wipe at the perfectly clean table under them. “All those people are down there right now. If that thing was going to come back, it would have.”

“It’s all a hoax.” Every one of Steve’s bones makes a simultaneous effort to leave his body the second he hears Alexander Pierce’s grumpy voice from the table nearest the door.

Alexander tries to give off the impression that he muttered that statement, that it was a subtle and private thing he’s just said, despite the fact that he is on the opposite end of the restaurant from the four of them—in short, all the other customers in The Diner this morning—and had to shout it to make sure they all heard. Steve wants to ignore him—make himself look busy—but he hasn’t gotten a coffee or even a menu yet to fiddle around with. Chase makes no effort to pretend he isn’t listening, that he isn’t now involved in the conversation.

“It’s not a hoax,” Chase calls to him. Steve, for a moment, feels what Bucky must have every time Steve pulled a stunt like this. “My friend Alex got it on video,” Chase continues, slapping his hand on Steve’s end of the table. “And Captain Rogers was in the lighthouse the whole night. He saw it too.”

“Did you?” Ty asks, a full and bright smile curling onto his young face. “What was it like?”

Steve says nothing. Alexander Pierce says nothing. The three children waiting for either of them to speak say nothing.

Steve holds Pierce’s gaze until the man finally wipes the crumbs of his dry toast from his chin, and then he says, definitively, “It was like a single heartbeat crying out into the night.”

Steve doesn’t break his gaze with Pierce even when the man sneers, even when he stands and jingles change out of his pocket, even when he drops it into his half-finished glass, and even when he hears Ty ask Tandy, “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Tandy whispers back. “Rogers is a little funny—you know?”

Ty doesn’t respond, which tells Steve he must have agreed with Tandy non-verbally. It’s a fair assessment—Steve really is only a _little_ funny.

“A hoax,” Alexander reaffirms, gathering up his coat from the empty seat next to him in the booth. He throws it on and exits.

Alexander Pierce: a man older than God and twice as judgmental, but equally as involved in the goings on of the people below him. He’s a nasty old man, and if he didn’t have the mayor and Rumlow in his pockets Steve would have chased him out of town years ago. There are plenty of people in town who would have. As with any tyrant, Pierce only needs the favor of those with enough money and power to keep him around. 

There’s something about him that has never sat right with Steve—even before Bucky told him the story about Alexander watching him from the docks one time, waiting after the others had gone home to offer Bucky fifty dollars to listen to his heartbeat. Bucky had accepted—it had seemed like such easy money at first. Bucky had done dirtier things with Steve in the nooks and crannies of public places than pressing an ear to his bare chest. But, Bucky had admitted after some prompting (interrogating, Bucky had said), it had gone on for a long time and it made him uncomfortable.

“What did he do?” Steve had asked. Bucky shrugged and shook his head.

“Just that. He listened to it beat, he counted a few times under his breath, and then he paid me.” To Steve, it had seemed that _that_ was the thing that unsettled Bucky. If some old geezer in the closet wanted to toss his money Bucky’s way to get his rocks off, Bucky wasn’t going to shame him for that. Bucky might have even looked on it as charity, the way he did the smiles he paid to all those girls whose hearts he broke.

“How did he get off to that?” Steve had asked, before really thinking about it, and his blunt tactlessness made Bucky snort water out of his nose. It broke the tension, so ultimately Steve thought it had been worth a little embarrassment.

After Bucky had wiped his face clean on his shirt and finished his glass, he’d finally answered Steve. “That’s what worries me. Can’t puzzle it out no matter how sick I go.”

“Wow,” Steve mock gasped, “and you’re pretty filthy, Buck.” Bucky had thrown his wet shirt at Steve’s face.

It was the first thing Steve thought of every time he passed Alexander in town. Usually, it was here in The Diner, but occasionally they had their beards tended to at the barbershop at the same time. They never said much, if anything, to each other, which is just as Steve prefers it. He has nothing polite to say to Alexander Pierce. Although it bothers Steve how, every time he crosses paths with Steve, the corner of Alexander’s mouth ticks up.

It could mean anything, and nothing good, Steve suspects, but Alexander doesn’t just reserve that smile for Steve. He also does it every time he leaves his tip for Tandy at the bottom of his half full glass.

It’s then that Steve realizes all four of them are staring at the glass, each their own kind of pensive. While Steve is reconciling the man who leaves change at the bottom of a unfinished milkshake with the one who paid Bucky to count his heartbeats, Tandy looks like this glass is a mockery of her entire life, an ultimate unkindness, and Ty looks at it like he wants to reach over and take it from her, just so she doesn’t have to worry about the muck of her life for one instant.

Chase just looks properly disgusted. He has, apparently, never seen Alexander Pierce leave a tip before. “Does he do that _every_ time?” Chase asks, gagging a little at the end of his question.

Tandy nods solemnly. “Every time.”

“You should just dump it,” Ty suggests. “It can’t be more than fifty cents. It’s not worth it.”

Tandy shakes her head. “He’s left silver dollars at the bottom before just to make me work for it.”

Steve’s had enough of this. He stands up, suddenly feeling too tall and gloomy amongst the small teens, and reaches into the milkshake, fishing out what ends up being around a buck fifty. He washes it off for her in the kitchen sink and even dries the coins before he returns to his table and plants them neatly into her tiny palm.

“Black coffee and raw sugar, Tandy, when you get the chance.” Steve points at Chase, “And French toast for him.”

“Sure thing, Cap.” Tandy slides the coins into her apron pocket and pulls four raw sugar packets in their place. Pierce likes them too, so Tandy always stashes some on her for Steve so the old man doesn’t get them all. She stops at Ty again and refills his coffee a second time in seven minutes—he’s barely had time to drain any of it. “Do you want to sit with them, Ty?” Tandy offers for him, already pulling Ty’s mug off the table and carrying it over, setting it neatly in the empty spot next to Chase. Ty keeps his eyes down on his bag, focused on moving his things and hiding his smile from Tandy, even after the girl turns around to get started on their drink orders.

*

Bucky didn’t sleepwalk before Becca died. It starts exactly two nights after her funeral, when Steve sees Bucky on the beach, swaying in the night, pointed towards the sea. He doesn’t think much of it at first; he merely goes down and gently guides Bucky back to their cottage, tucking him in and putting him back to bed. 

It keeps happening.

Steve usually wakes him, a gentle hand on his shoulder until Bucky’s eyes slowly open. In the beginning, it’s always a shock for Bucky. The second Steve’s hand touches him he jolts awake and looks around, confused and frightened until he sees it’s only Steve’s hand, and Steve’s smiling face waiting to lead him back home. The walk home is always pleasant, even with Bucky barefoot and still in his pajamas. 

Steve suggests, more than once and only a joke half the time, that Bucky comes to the lighthouse with him every night so that he can have a shorter walk to the beach when he inevitably sleepwalks. Bucky won’t, because he’s afraid of falling down the spiral staircase, awake or not. To Bucky, the stairs have always felt rickety, ready to collapse from rust and time, bringing the rest of the lighthouse with it.

It becomes a routine for them, waking Bucky on the beach and walking home together. Steve always knows when Bucky arrives— the knowing tells him he’s not alone, and he looks out onto the beach and sees Bucky, always in the same spot, just a coat over his pajamas. Steve doesn’t think it can be healthy for Bucky to be out in the cold on the beach— the walk to and from the cottage is too long for Bucky to be exposed to the cold. 

“George used to do it,” Winnie says, when Steve brings it up as a possible concern. “We put a bolt on the front door to keep him from driving the car everywhere.”

Steve puts a bolt on the door. It helps; the thud of the door working against Bucky’s pull is loud enough to wake him when he tries to leave. Bucky starts making notes of how often he wakes up to find himself trying to leave for the beach.

This gives both Steve and Bucky the false sense of security that it’s harmless, that they have it under control. Even when Bucky starts to unlock the bolt in his sleep, they don’t panic. Bucky never hurts himself sleepwalking. On nights that he gets past the bolt and all the way down to the beach, Steve is able to keep an eye on him from the lighthouse. They take a few other precautions; Bucky dresses warmly for bed enough to keep him from freezing on the beach at night, and sometimes he even wakes up part way there and walks himself back home. Bucky has become like one of the vessels that just _might_ sail into the rocks of McDunn, little chance of harm but Steve keeps an eye out just in case.

Steve doesn’t see him on the beach at all the night he disappears. He left him as he always does, with a warm tumbler of coffee and a kiss on the soft spot just behind Bucky’s ear, before heading out towards the light house. He watches the horizon, and he watches the path Bucky always takes in his sleep. Steve watches diligently all night and yet Bucky does not walk towards him. 

It’s been a year since Becca died, since the sleepwalking started, and Steve thinks, foolishly, that maybe this means it’s over. Maybe Bucky’s subconscious has finally found peace and closure after walking to the beach every night, waiting for his twin sister who will never walk out of the water to reunite with him.

Steve stops off at The Diner on his way back, takes the long way into town and everything. He stops in to buy Bucky a cinnamon roll and one of those sugary coffee drinks in a glass bottle that he loves. He expects to be coming home to a sleepy Bucky, blankets tucked around him, hair a mess and groaning that it’s too early to get up while he unbolts the door and lets Steve in.

Instead, his heart tells him he is alone before he even gets to the door. He tries the door— it’s unbolted and swings open easy for him.

It takes a long time for panic to seize Steve when he first walks in, calling out for Bucky, searching the house with frantic denial against what his heart is already telling him. Steve takes another look through every room of the cottage, and then two more, before he goes out, not locking the door, to check for him at Winnie’s.

When Steve arrives, he remembers he forgot to bring his key but he doesn’t want to knock on the door and wake Winnie yet. It could be nothing. Bucky could be fine. Steve shouldn’t worry her unnecessarily. But he still has to check her house for Bucky. He takes the spare key out from under the potted plant next to the door.

Steve tries his best not to wake her, but the racket he causes looking for Bucky in her house rouses her. By the time she gets out of bed, Steve has run into the street, shouting Bucky’s name until she comes out and asks him what the hell he’s doing so early in the morning. It’s like tripping over a cat in the dark— there’s no inclination of danger and yet it darts underfoot, tripping Steve where he’s walked a thousand times.

She starts calling people, everyone in town who might know where Bucky is— but so few people know Bucky anymore, or Winnie. The Barneses are dying out almost as quickly as the Rogerses had.

It is Winnie who calls Police Chief Rumlow to come and “help”. Because Winnie is, has always been, an optimist who expects the chief of police— no matter how much of an insufferable tool he is— to take a disappearance (especially a McDisappearance) seriously.

Steve has clenched his hands tightly into fists when Brock arrives, and holds them that way until at least fifteen minutes after the man leaves. Rumlow is condescending, reminding them about the 72 hour wait on all missing persons, which Steve is pretty sure isn’t a _real_ rule and just something cops do to sound in charge and useful when they are really anything but.

“He could be hurt,” Winnie insists, pleading with Brock. “He’s been sleepwalking. What if he tripped and broke his leg?”

Brock has the audacity to sigh, _exasperated_ , when Winnie says this. “Well, there you go right there,” he says. “He’s been sleepwalking, he’s probably not gone far. He’ll wander back.”

“Unless he’s lost,” Steve persists. He swears his nails are digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

Brock shrugs. “McDunn isn’t a big town. How could he get lost?” 

Rumlow took over the police station years ago, when Officer Connors became his own McDisappearance. The job was open for weeks, and in the meantime there was no one to investigate or to hire anyone to do so. Eventually, Brock stepped up and took the job. To this day, Steve isn’t sure if he’s really a policeman, if he’s qualified or even official in any kind of capacity. He has the keys to the holding cell, the sheriff’s office, and the cruiser, but as far as Steve knows he has as much right to the claim of police chief as Rumlow does. He certainly doesn’t seem qualified, other than that he approaches this missing person's report with the same incredulity and laissez faire attitude Officer Connors would have.

“I don’t know,” Steve huffs. “Perhaps if he was _sleepwalking_?”

“You can’t keep an eye on your buddy, that’s not my problem,” Brock says. “Maybe you should be the one looking for him.” 

Steve almost punches him right there, but Winnie is still twisting a dish towel in her hands with worry. She’s upset enough already, and Steve doesn’t want to put her in the position of having to pull him off of the Chief of Police. So Steve clenches his fists harder, digs his fingernails as deep into his palms as it takes to ground him, and specifically does not throw a punch at Rumlow.

Brock leaves pretty quickly, possibly he has some “very important” local policing to get up to; Steve knows it’s only him driving around town in his car, cruising like always. It would cost him nothing to at least keep an eye out for Bucky, or at least say he would to bring Winnie some comfort, but Brock doesn’t care.

Steve waits until he leaves to grab his coat and shoes and head out into the town again. He didn’t want to leave Winnie alone with Brock, but now there is a worse thought bubbling up inside of him: that Brock _will_ find Bucky before Steve does. Bucky will be in such a vulnerable state, and Rumlow is not a man who handles vulnerable states correctly.

Steve walks the entire length of the town four times that day, circling back and changing his route just in case he crosses paths with Bucky going a different direction. Steve does it daily, and as the days since Bucky went missing pile on Steve has to admit that, if Bucky were still in McDunn, there was no stone unturned— Steve would have found him by now. One way or another.

Winnie closes the missing person’s report without telling him. Steve understands why she did it that way, that she knew Steve would never let her do it, wouldn’t let Bucky go like that if he had any say in it at all. Steve finds out on day forty-three of Bucky being missing that she had called Brock and allowed the case to go “unsolved”. So many unsolved cases, and Steve wants to know so badly where these people are spirited off to. How can humans just _disappear_? How can something make _Bucky_ disappear after he’d had such conviction against it?

Steve finds out about the unsolved case in the worst possible way. He imagines Winnie wanted to tell him herself— he was on his way over there for dinner, and is looking forward to it after another day of fruitless searching. 

When Brock pulls up in the cruiser beside him, Steve’s heart stops beating for a moment.

Brock is smug, as if Bucky’s disappearance is a funny thing to him. As if he likes watching Steve search the small town day after day, multiple times, even though he can’t possibly find Bucky.

“Empty casket then, Rogers?” Brock asks, rolling down his window and wearing dark shades, as if it isn’t overcast today, as if it isn’t overcast in McDunn most days.

Steve keeps walking, his feet moving, knowing he can’t outrun Brock in the cruiser but determined to ignore him. His steps become heavier, stomping on the concrete like that will get Brock to leave him alone.

“What else are they gonna do? Cremate all of his clothes?”

Steve doesn’t stop walking— that’s what Brock wants and Steve won’t give it to him. But what Brock is saying doesn’t pass unnoticed.

“Wouldn’t need to if the cops got off of their asses,” Steve says, spitting it out because he can’t hold that fire in— maybe he never could, but Steve never tried.

“You haven’t heard?” Brock says, delighted, because he _knows_ Steve hasn’t heard. He wants to be the one to tell him. Brock Rumlow never passes up a good mocking when he can. “His old lady closed the case this morning.”

Steve stops in his tracks. He looks at Rumlow, his eyes meeting his own reflection in the black glass, like a pool of slick oil posing as a rainbow. “What did you say?”

“You want to see the paperwork?” Brock asks and then actually pulls up a thick manilla folder like he’s been driving around with it— looking for Steve specifically to show him. Brock waves it around. “She signed off on the unsolved case. Your Bucky is going in the tank.”

Steve wants to say something mean and horrible to Brock, but his words are tangling around his throat, scavenging for an explanation. Winnie wouldn’t— she couldn’t give up on Bucky. Her last child, her last living family, her last drop of blood, _Steve’s_ last and only _Everything_. 

He lets Brock drive away, cackling in his cruiser with the window down. Once Steve knows he’s alone, after the engine noise fades into the distance and his uncanny knowing taps him on the shoulder to make him aware that there is no Bucky, no Becca, no Sarah. Steve might as well be the last man for miles. Steve sinks to his knees— he doesn’t cry, even though he tries to— and stares at the horizon, trying to accept what he’s just heard.

Bucky is never coming back.

*

Steve looks at the two boys in front of him, both with expressions of excitement at hearing some great whale story from old lighthouse keeper Captain Rogers.

It’s nice that they don’t treat him the way most of the adults in town do— most of the other teens, too. In some ways, Steve is as old and unknown as any of the other staples of McDunn. The lighthouse itself, a relic, ancient, something from a bygone age that no one truly remembers or cares for— but it's old and it's alone, waiting for the day it crumbles to dust. There are other people in the town, the ones who treat him like the abandoned fairgrounds— a dark and eerie place that no one enters and no one leaves. He's a thing to be feared then, kept away from, close your blinds and cross the street because to love Steve Rogers is to disappear. When he's the last one alive, after all this time, it's hard for Steve not to feel they're right. It's simple math: there's only one common denominator.

To those citizens, Steve is an object, a place, but these three kids look at him like he's a person. He can move and breathe like any of them— he can be warm and he can feel. These kids look at him like he’s some kind of legend, nothing to be scared of, maybe something to be admired. They remind him of Becca— she was always telling Steve, "You're likeable, you just take some time." Steve always felt like a direct contrast to Bucky, who could walk into any room and make two new friends before he left. But Becca had been right; once people got to know him, they enjoyed being around him. 

It makes Steve feel just a little less lonely, a little less extinct, to have three people so keenly interested in what he saw the night before.

They’ve seen the youtube video, and they have all made it clear that waiting around at the beach to see the real thing isn’t going to fly for either of them. But they don’t just want a description of Bex. They want a _story_. 

It's this thought that Steve holds onto, the way that Becca saw him, as he launches into his story.

Steve smiles and tries to take a sip of his coffee before he remembers Tandy hasn’t even brought him a mug yet. Instead, he picks idly at the dry skin on the back of his hand.

“It was bigger than anything,” Steve begins, and Chase leans forward, like he can get the story into his ears faster that way. “Almost as big as the lighthouse, I’d say, if not bigger.”

“Is he telling the story?” Tandy yells from the kitchen. Before anyone answers her, she shouts again, this time leaning half of her small body through the kitchen window, “Don’t tell the story yet. I want to hear it.”

“He can tell it again,” Ty calls back to her, then he looks at Steve. “Is that okay, Captain Rogers, sir?”

Steve doesn’t really like it when the kids call him sir. He shakes his head. “Let’s wait for her,” Steve suggests, trying to reach a compromise. “I’m better with my coffee, anyway.”

“Tandy, hurry up,” Chase calls. By now, Tandy has slid back inside the kitchen window, but Steve can still see the top of her head bobbing from one task to another.

Ty elbows Chase gently enough. “Dude, she’s working; let her work.”

“What did it do?” Chase asks, leaning over the table to Steve again. Steve shakes his head.

“Don’t try to trick me,” Steve admonishes. “I’m tired and I only want to tell it once.”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen.” Ty chuckles, pointing out the window, towards the beach and the rocks where half - if not all - the town is trying to catch a glimpse of the thing he saw last night. “I’m pretty sure everyone and their dog is going to want to hear your story.”

“I don’t have to tell them.” Steve sighs, his shoulders feeling heavier than they did when he walked in. He really should get home to sleep in a real bed. Steve worries, suddenly, if he’ll have visitors “dropping in” on him all day just to ask about Bex.

Tandy rushes over to the table, sliding too fast on her sneakers, and she has to catch herself on Ty’s shoulder and his end of the booth. The three of them look at Steve expectantly.

Steve picks up an invisible coffee cup and pretends to drink from it before Tandy gasps and rushes back to the counter to get Steve his coffee. There is exactly one mug in rotation that is bigger than all the others— Tandy always saves that one for her favorite customers. It’s the one she is pouring his coffee into now. 

Steve feels a little like a celebrity. He can only imagine that if it was Bucky in his shoes, if he’d been the one to see the creature, he would be eating all of this up right now.

Tandy is taking slow steps towards them, because she’s over-filled the mug and each step makes the coffee slosh around and threaten to jump out over the rim. The front door opens, but Tandy doesn’t turn to look, just shouts to the new customer to, “Take a seat, I’ll be right with you,” and the boys have their eyes on Tandy, both very interested to see how much of the coffee can actually make it over to Steve.

“I’m looking for someone, actually,” the new customer says.

Steve has, in his thirty five years of life, felt time stop before. Most people have. It’s never for very long, and it never stops entirely— it’s just a moment that is so important it has to take a little longer than all other moments.

Bucky Barnes has just walked into The Diner and informed the staff there that he is looking for someone. Steve is glad that time has stopped, glad that it is giving him a chance to make sure this is real. 

He stands, and time continues to hold itself still, giving Steve the slow moving seconds he needs to drink Bucky in. Bucky’s hair is longer, pulled into an intentionally messy bun at the top, and there’s a spare hair tie on his wrist. Bucky used to keep it so short, but Steve always suspected that was because Becca enjoyed cutting his hair for him. Bucky seems worn out in his body, like he hasn’t truly rested in seven years— it’s definitely a possibility, since Steve hasn’t— as if someone cut stitches out of him before any wounds healed. The kind of exhaustion that only comes from unrelenting despair.

He steps right into Bucky’s space, and it feels warmer than the rest of the room, the rest of the town, anything in the last seven years. 

Bucky smiles up at him, charming as anything, but blinking in confusion. He obviously doesn’t know what Steve is about to do— strange, as there’s really only one thing Steve _can_ do. He wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls him into a tight hug.

He looks different but holding him feels the same. It feels like a blanket fresh out of the dryer, laid over Steve while he sleeps. His left arm feels strange, too solid and nothing like the right. He pulls Bucky in tighter and starts to cry a little.

Bucky doesn’t hug back. There’s something very wrong about it— the way his body tenses in Steve’s embrace before it relaxes, gets comfortable, remembers what it’s like to be held with this exact brand of tenderness. Bucky moves his arm, just the right one, eventually, and wraps it around Steve. He pats him heartily on the back, leans his head over, and says to Tandy, “Such great service here. You guys on Yelp?”

Time moves again. Other people exist again. Steve’s heart beats in his chest, so hard it feels like it’s trying to break through his ribs and dive into Bucky’s— to live at home again after all these years.

“What’s Yelp?” Chase asks.

“It’s like this app where old people explain why they didn’t tip,” Ty answers.

Steve pulls away and looks at Bucky, blinking at him while he gives Steve a look that is confused but flattered. “Where have you been?”

“All your life?” Bucky asks, smooth and flirty like he always was when Steve asked him a serious question. For some reason, Steve had expected that when Bucky came back— _if_ he ever did— he would be some kind of ghost, covered in seaweed and chains, begging Steve to meet him at the bottom of the ocean. It’s strange to see him dry, hair perfectly coiffed, and not carrying around chains that would make Jacob Marley sweat.

“I’ve been looking for you.” It’s not a lie. Steve may have dropped the investigation for Winnie’s sake, but there was nothing to keep him from gazing out at the horizon from the lighthouse, seeking out the shape of Bucky on the waves or standing at his spot on the beach. Steve squeezes Bucky’s shoulders— he’s bigger, more muscular, than he used to be.

“Well, here I am,” Bucky laughs, shifting his weight between his left foot and his right. “You want to tell me your name? Since you’re so keen to have found me.”

Steve drops his hands from Bucky’s shoulders. Tries to find that little glint of recognition that lives in the left corner of his eye. Steve looks for any sign that Bucky knows him. He thinks he sees it, maybe, in the way Bucky smiles at him, but whatever it is isn’t enough for Bucky to melt back into his arms.

“What’s up, Captain?” It’s Tandy. Steve had forgotten about her and the boys. He had forgotten about The Diner. “You know this guy?”

“Bucky?” Steve asks— even though he’s sure it’s him. Even though he knows in his bones that it _is_ Bucky— it feels like Steve has to ask to make sure.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Bucky looks Steve up and down, still doesn’t pull out of the half-embrace they have ended up in, and then laughs. “That your guy?” Bucky makes a little show of looking around The Diner before he says, “Can’t be too bright if he left you unsupervised”.

Steve takes a step backwards, and then two more— he suddenly needs the distance to take in all of Bucky as a whole. “You don’t know me?”

“Not yet, but give me time.” Bucky is flirting with him— not the way he used to flirt with Steve, but in the default way. The way Bucky flirts with girls and guys and anyone tall enough to get something off of a high shelf for him. Steve doesn’t like being in either role. “I only just got here.”

“Did you want to order something?” Tandy steps into the space now left between Bucky and Steve. She hands Steve his mug quietly, perhaps hoping that having it will help Steve in some way. He takes a sip and it does— a little.

“I’m looking for my dad. We were supposed to have breakfast together once I got into town.” Bucky explains it so casually, like he hasn’t been missing presumed dead for seven years and like George Barnes didn’t die of a heart attack when Bucky was seven. “But it looks like he left without me.” 

Bucky turns to look around The Diner, searching for his dead father, until he finds Pierce’s empty table, all the dishes still there save for the milkshake glass. Bucky jabs his thumb at the mess. “If you’re late, we start without you,” he laughs, easy and rehearsed. To be fair, that does _sound_ like something Alexander Pierce would say to his children— would say to anyone’s children. The smile stays on Bucky’s face even as a drop of blood slowly forms into a stream out of his left nostril. Bucky must feel it, but he doesn’t react, even when it stains his teeth and lands copper on his tongue.

“Dude, are you okay?” Chase asks, standing up as best he can in the booth. Ty shifts one of his legs out from under the table, preparing to jump up and move if needs be.

Bucky blinks, something clicking and stopping behind his eyes like a lighter out of fluid, sparking without completion. He reaches up and touches his face, and when he looks down and sees the blood the spark fires up again— the facade Bucky is back. Bucky makes a shocked yelp before he clasps his hand over his nose and starts backing away. 

“This is so embarrassing,” Bucky stammers— like he hasn’t seen a million and one bloody noses from Steve since they were kids. “Is there— ? Bathroom?”

“Don’t tilt your head back,” Steve advises, moving forward and touching the back of Bucky’s head and guiding it downward. “Tilt forward.” 

Bucky does as directed, not just in tilting his head by also in the way he follows Steve’s guiding hand on his back into the bathroom and to the sink.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have, this entire time, remained on my Bird Boyfriend bullshit. Enjoy.

Chapter Three:

Steve doesn’t remember standing up from where he fell to his knees after Brock drove away. He doesn’t remember walking, either, but he finds himself at Winnie’s door on Holloway Street. He doesn’t knock, just leans against the door frame inside the screen door and waits for an answer.

Winnie sees him when she opens the door to let the cat in off the porch. Steve isn’t sure when she got a cat. He knew there was a stray in the neighborhood that she left food out for a few times, but perhaps the cat has become hers officially, now that she no longer has any children to fill her home. Or maybe she had started to let it inside and out after Bucky moved in with Steve and she needed noise to fill up the house in the hours between her son's frequent visits.

Either way, it’s hard for Steve to focus on what he came here for, because now all he can think about is the cat. Where did it come from? Would it ever go back there? Why did it wind its way around his feet, weaving in and out to earn his affection? Why did it surface just as quickly and quietly as Bucky had vanished?

Did the cat know? Was she some guardian, a protector of life and motherhood, come to ease the death of Winnie’s last child? It’s a calico, which means it’s most likely a female. Maybe a goddess in disguise.

“Steve?” Winnie asks finally, and Steve wonders how long he’s been in her doorway thinking about the cat. Too long, he realises, as she steps back and gestures for him to come inside. “I was hoping he wouldn’t run into you,” she says, gentle and genuine. She can’t help Brock’s cruelty.

“I think he went out looking for me.” Steve sighs, sitting down heavily in his place at the dining room table. Made to hold four people -- five in a pinch -- and now Winnie would be at it alone every night. Steve’s own cottage by the shore will feel like an empty palace to him, worse than it did already in the days since Bucky walked away.

“He’s odious,” she says, moving to the cabinets in the back and pulling out mugs and tea bags, a little kettle already starting to steam on the oven. “Believe it or not, he’s not as bad as Connors was.”

“There’s no need to rank them,” Steve says, pulling his coat off from around his shoulders and draping it over the back of his chair. “They can both be awful wastes of life.” He looks around, doesn’t see the cat— she must have stepped silently away when he wasn’t looking— possibly to hide under a piece of furniture. Steve still senses her presence in the house.

She pulls the kettle off of the oven just before it starts to whistle. Steve has always found that to be Winnie’s own little uncanny gift: to know when the kettle is ready. “Please don’t speak like that, Steve,” she whispers. It’s so quiet Steve can hear the hot water still moving in the kettle from its near boil even from across the kitchen.

“How could you?” Steve asks. Maybe he owes it to her to avoid this conversation— maybe the last good thing Steve can do for Bucky is take care of his mother, to try not to fight with her. But it’s so hard for Steve not to fight, especially with Bucky on the line.

“We won’t find him,” she answers and then, equally as mournful, asks, “It’s two sugars isn’t it?” It is, and she’s already dropping them in one cube at a time. Steve can see her hands shaking ever so slightly.

“He wouldn’t leave like that,” Steve reminds her. “There’s no reason for him to.”

“That doesn’t change anything.” Winnie sighs and lifts the tray, turning around and walking it, still shaking, over to Steve on the table. He reaches forward to take the cup but doesn’t drink from it. He only wraps his hands around it and lets the heat seep into his palms. “It doesn’t matter what happened. We won’t find him.”

“We won’t if we don’t look.” He has an urge to see the ceramic cup smashed on the floor. He feels like he could break it if he just squeezes hard enough. Maybe he could throw it at the wall. Steve listens for the sound of the cat— he’d hate to scare her out of the kitchen with such a violent and sudden act. He’d hate to scare Winnie that way.

“I don’t want to look anymore, Steve.” Her voice sounds so small, weak in a way he hasn’t heard it before. She’s giving up on Bucky because she’s tired. It’s not right.

“Well, I do.” He doesn’t mean to yell. It’s just what happens. The same way that she doesn’t mean to cry in front of him— it’s just what happens. He doesn’t break the mug, at least. The cat jumps onto the table, so light on her feet that she doesn’t disturb the dishes as she steps gingerly around them towards Winnie.

Winnie curls into herself, her hands covering her face to hide her tears, and Steve feels awful that he’s made her feel like this. “It hurts me so much,” she admits. The cat pushes her head against Winnie’s hands, her purring the loudest noise Steve’s heard from her. When a cat purrs it has a healing energy— Steve read that somewhere.

Steve is up from his chair in an instant. He kneels beside her on the kitchen floor -- lovely black and white tiles that he and Bucky put in for her only a couple of years ago. They were going to help her remodel the entire kitchen piece by piece. They only got as far as the tile and staining the wood of the cabinets. They look good— Steve has steady hands and Bucky a keen eye— but now Steve wonders if she’ll have it redone entirely, if looking at the room reminds her too much of Bucky.

How could he be so unfeeling towards her? What pain, what a heavy heart Winnie must have, to live in this house, every day reminded only of the people who aren’t there anymore. She should want to find Bucky, and Becca, and Steve would never say that she doesn’t want to. But she must be tired from looking. Steve gives her that— it is another thing entirely to be a mother never seeing her child again than to be a man without his love. She pulls her hands away from her face, still crying, and pets the cat.

Steve takes her by her free hand, he holds it, and she takes his up quickly and gives it a squeeze. Her hand still moves over the calico, gently, like the motion brings her comfort. She’s gentle with his hand, too, but Steve hopes she breaks his fingers— it’s what he deserves. Bucky was right, or maybe Becca was, that it does no good to fight with their mother; she’s in too much pain to bear it.

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” she cries. The cat steps down from the table and into Winnie’s lap, pressing into her chest and purring there, right over her heart.

Steve stands up and pulls her into an embrace, lets her cry into his chest and soak his shirt. He can remember doing this to a number of Winnie’s and Sarah’s clothes, a small child weeping so hard into the fabric of a mother’s calming embrace. It’s an odd reversal, somewhat uncomfortable, but he doesn’t pull away because she needs more than the comfort of a stray cat in her lap— Steve is the closest thing she has to a child now. 

He puts a hand on Winnie’s back and rubs in little circles. She mutters something into his shirt that he can’t quite make out, but he’s sure it has something to do with the tea getting cold. He can feel her heartbeat pounding in her back. She is tired of grieving and hoping and Steve has bulldozed his way through her emotions, assuming they should be the same as his own. It’s not fair to her. He knows it isn’t fair to Bucky that they stop looking, or Becca either. But Steve can’t let her suffer like this. It’s the time, again, to buy an empty casket and bury it with pretty speeches. Winnie is allowed to mourn. He could at least offer her the same gentle comfort as a stray cat.

His Rogers stubbornness will only hurt her if he keeps looking for Bucky. He can shout and scream until his throat bleeds and Brock might reopen the investigation, but then what? Brock won’t make any more effort, nor is he competent enough to find Bucky even if he does, but it would feel less like giving up on Bucky. 

Bucky wouldn't promise him he’d never leave if he didn’t mean it, and Steve promised too, that he would look for Bucky if he ever did leave. 

He has to break it, though, and it feels wrong because it’s a choice Steve makes on Bucky’s mother’s kitchen floor, only caring about ways to make her stop crying. Bucky didn’t want to leave him, Steve knows that for sure. Steve doesn’t want to close the investigation for Bucky, but he knows he can’t do this to Winnie anymore than Bucky could after Becca.

So Steve lets her cry it out. Even drinks all of the tea despite the fact that, yes, it has gone cold. He starts to make burial arrangements, agreeing on an urn this time, filled with the ashes of some of Bucky’s clothes. They iron out a few details before Steve can feel Winnie growing mournful again and he changes the subject. The cat never leaves her lap.

She keeps Bucky’s ashes in his old bedroom and she never converts his or Becca’s old rooms into other things, despite how often she mentions thinking of doing it as a project. Steve assumes the kitchen is somewhere on her list, but she’s waiting to mention it to him.

She probably thinks it would be a hard thing for him to accept, like the closing of the investigation, a request to accept that Bucky lied; there is, or was, _something_ that could keep him from Steve.

When Steve looks out at the horizon at night, watching for lost bodies and vessels on the waves, he wonders what kind of siren it will take for him to eventually disappear too. Maybe everyone in McDunn disappears eventually. Maybe all the caskets and urns in the city are truly empty. He wonders what happens to all the bodies they never find. He wonders how long it’ll be before he disappears too, and just hopes that it is sometime after Winnie does. He’d rather he was the last one than for her to have another loved one to find an empty urn for.

Knowing that he can never look for Bucky with her knowledge doesn’t stop him from watching the sea at night. Or calling out into it, screaming for Bucky to come back. The other half of his heart crying out into nothing:

_Please. I am alone._

Bucky should come to him. Bucky should know, be able to feel it across miles of ocean and beyond the veil of the living. Bucky should be able to feel it as keenly as Steve does himself: that he is alone. Bucky should arrive like the cat, knowing the perfect comfort, and settling warm against Steve’s chest to ease the pain in his heart.

Steve knows that if Bucky could, if he is still alive out there somewhere, he would. Come hell or high water, Bucky wouldn’t leave Steve to be alone, whittling away the hours until his own disappearance. People go missing so quickly and so often that it’s possible there will come a day when no one remembers the Rogers or Barnes families. That the two houses connected by a backyard on Holloway and Nightshade will be severed, disconnected, fenced up. After all, why should two houses share such close proximity? The new tenants will redesign the kitchen and the bedrooms. Maybe they’ll turn it into an AirBnB, but Steve doubts anyone will ever come to McDunn to stay so long.

Steve wonders who the new lighthouse keeper will be, after he’s gone. If they will bother to hire a new one, or maybe they’ll let the lighthouse vanish too, so even the places Steve haunted can’t be found. There won’t be a soul in town who can say for sure who Steve Rogers was, who his mother was, who his lover was, and the thing that destroys Steve about that thought is the idea that then, and only then, Bucky will return and he won’t be able to find Steve. It will have taken him years, cost him blood and heartache, but he’ll come back. Bucky will search without finding him and feel, for the rest of his days, how alone Steve was in the end.

Bucky will come back, and no one will know Steve Rogers. He’ll be erased.

*

Bucky’s nosebleed takes a little longer to subside than the last one Steve remembers having. He’s seen more than one bloody nose on Bucky before, but never from anything besides a good punch.

“A vessel must have popped or something,” Bucky explains, like that’s the thing he needs to explain to Steve, while he’s hunched over the bathroom sink washing the blood off of his face. Some of it has dried and caked on already. There is a lot of blood coming out of Bucky— his heart must be pumping harder.

“Stress can do it, too,” Steve explains, carefully, not wanting to rush Bucky with the information. “Was it a long drive here?”

Bucky pauses with the water part way up to his face and holds still so long that it dribbles out of his palm. “I don't remember,” he says, a little lost, and then in a snap he’s found himself again— or he’s found someone else to be. Either way, when the water has gone from his palm he stands up straight, grabs two paper towels from the basket on the counter, and starts to dry his face. His shirt is soaked, but it’s mostly just water— there are only a few drops of blood on the collar, and they should come out with some hydrogen peroxide and a nice soak.

“Thanks for the help,” Bucky says, leaning back against the sink and tossing the used paper towel into the bin just behind Steve. It smacks the wall and bounces down, resting just to the left of the basket.

“I’ve had my fair share of nosebleeds.” Steve leans down and picks the paper towel up and drops it gently into the bin.

“I’m James, by the way,” Bucky introduces himself, and he’s not wrong, that’s not an _inaccurate_ statement. Bucky’s first name is James, but other than Winnie scolding him when he’d been particularly bad Steve can’t remember him ever going by it. Steve offers his hand to Bucky.

“I’m Steve.” Steve watches his eyes, tries to find something in them like the spark before, trying to link something it’s not supposed to.

If it happens, it doesn’t last long. Bucky shakes Steve’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” Bucky keeps holding Steve’s hand and Steve won’t drop the hold either. It feels unreal to touch Bucky again. “So I guess I look like your guy, huh?” James offers as a likely explanation— much less far fetched than the truth. Steve drops his hand, then rolls his shoulders a few times to will away the tension gathering there.

“It’s uncanny,” Steve admits. “I’m sorry. I’ve been up all night.” As if exhaustion could really explain away why a missing person wasn’t missing anymore.

“You and a lot of people,” Bucky laughs. He seems to have found Steve’s hug harmless enough— Steve’s grateful for that for many reasons, least of which being the fact that a call to Officer Brock to come and arrest Steve for harassment is not what they need right now. “There’s some big commotion down at the beach, yeah?” Bucky offers and Steve nods.

“I keep the lighthouse down there,” Steve explains and then, as if it really needs adding, “A beast rose up out of the sea last night.”

“No way.” Bucky laughs like he thinks Steve is joking; Steve hadn’t realized how far fetched it sounds until just now, trying to explain it to someone who apparently didn’t even know it happened. Everyone else in town has just believed Steve, as if there’s no question about it. That makes sense— there’s video, multiple witnesses, and even besides all that Bex was bigger than most of the buildings in town, so of course someone other than Steve must have seen her. 

Steve presses on. “You didn’t see the news? Or hear about it on the radio? Maybe on the drive up?” He offers.

Bucky’s eyes flicker to the ground, too low and hidden for Steve to read them properly. But he can see it just in the sliver of Bucky’s eyes: there’s desperate confusion there. Maybe not about Steve, or the beast, but why he can’t remember anything about his supposed trip to McDunn.

“We didn’t drive. I don’t, um.” Bucky tips sideways, his body looking like it is about to go boneless and onto the floor.

“Have you ever been to McDunn before?” The question comes out fast, Steve hoping if he can just fire enough rapid questions at Bucky it will shake something loose. But all it does is hurt him. Bucky almost falls over, collapses, but at least the nose bleed doesn’t seem to start up again.

Steve catches him by the arm, holds him steady until Bucky’s breathing evens out. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and he means it. He is too stubborn, too blunt, always pushing at things until they are the way he wants them to be. Steve never pays attention to what he might be breaking by shoving things to fit into the little peg designs he’s made. He can’t break Bucky after only just getting him back. He can’t do things the Steve Rogers way— he has to do them the Winnie Barnes way. Gentle, leading, never pulling. “Maybe we should take you to a doctor?”

Bucky shakes his head and smiles at Steve. “I’m good. Really. Must just be tired. Probably dehydrated,” Bucky ponders. “I’ve been moving boxes all day.”

“You’re moving here?” Steve asks, little gasps catching in his throat one on top of the other as the prospect of Bucky being near him again starts to consume him.

“Kind of. My sister and her family are moving here to be closer to our dad.” Bucky gestures nowhere in particular; Steve likes that he still talks with his whole body. “I think the next stage of their operation is to gang up on me until I agree to move here too.”

“Where do you live now?”

It’s another question that wrenches the gears in Bucky’s brain. Steve regrets asking— but he’s angry now, too. Whoever scooped all of Bucky’s memories out of his brain forgot to put any kind of substitute back in. Did they not plan on Bucky being asked questions? Perhaps not, perhaps the person masquerading as Bucky’s dad was due to show up any minute and whisk Bucky away from Steve again.

“My dad,” Bucky gasps and slaps his hand to his head, wincing a little. “Fuck, I forgot I needed to find him. I was supposed to meet him here for breakfast but I overslept.”

They kept that then, at least: Bucky was not an early riser even if he wanted to be. Steve used to spend most mornings quietly drinking coffee on the porch, watching the sun rise after walking home from the lighthouse. Bucky would get up and join him around nine-thirty at the earliest. Steve misses seeing his duckling hair in the morning.

“I don’t think he’s come in yet,” Steve offers as condolence. “I’m usually the first customer most mornings. There hasn’t really been anyone in here yet.” Steve opens the bathroom door, tired of being in such a cramped space, such close proximity to Bucky and unable to touch him or make him remember. Steve isn’t going to push, but it’s hard not to with Bucky _right there_.

Bucky steps out with Steve, and all three teens are watching the bathroom door while trying to act like they aren’t. The only one who even remotely turns his head away in time is Ty, who is clearly just pretending to write in his textbook. The pen doesn’t even have the cap off, but it’s still a step above Tandy, who is washing her hands while whistling. She is leaps and bounds above Chase, who falls back in his booth seat too quickly and smacks his head against the window.

Bucky laughs, and Steve’s heart skips a few beats at hearing it. He would do anything to make Bucky laugh again.

“Captain, are you still gonna tell the story?” Tandy asks, giving up on the we-weren’t-eavesdropping charade fairly quickly. “Chase’s french toast is ready.”

“The story?” Bucky looks between Tandy and Steve. “So there really is a dinosaur? Come on. It’s a hoax right? Probably?”

“There’s video and everything,” Chase counters, eagerly; Steve thinks maybe the kid loves telling people about this more than he should, but maybe the boy just _believes_ too hard in Steve— or, more likely, his friend Alex’s viral video. “And a bunch of people besides Steve saw it. Fisherman mainly, but still.”

“Never know about those guys. I think they’re drunk on deck half the time,” Tandy says, and it must be some kind of joke— at least, it is between her and Ty, because he laughs.

“It’s called a big fish story for a reason,” Ty agrees and the two make a good point. Steve hadn’t considered the amazing technology of recording devices. He had decided easily never to tell anyone about seeing Bex for at least one key reason: he had assumed no one would believe him without proof, and he hadn’t seen any reason to _prove_ her at the time.

“Some fish,” Bucky chuckles. “Show me the video? I wanna see this thing.” 

Chase already has his phone out— maybe kids these days never truly put them down anymore— and is pulling up the video that must just be in an open tab on his phone, ready to show to non-believers.

The bell over the entrance rings and Steve can tell just by the disgust on Ty’s face and the exhaustion on Tandy’s that, for some ungodly reason, Alexander Pierce has returned to The Diner. It seems he isn’t finished ruining everyone’s day. Steve expects him to demand something of Tandy, like asking for his filthy milkshake coins back, but he just stands right behind Steve. Steve can feel it as keenly as if Alexander were breathing into his neck. Pierce clears his throat until Bucky turns around.

“James,” Alexander huffs. Bucky’s face falls, and his entire body looks rigid but smaller, like he’s trying to slot all of his bones closer together to contort him into something tiny, less threatening. Obedient, even.

“Dad,” James sighs and then ends it with a smile— that’s the Bucky in him, bypassing “fight”, “flight” and “freeze” and just going straight to “flatter”. “You can’t be anyone’s father. Look at this young spring chicken.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Alexander chides him, acting immune to the Bucky Charm— maybe he is. Steve can’t really figure out how right now, because Bucky is talking to Alexander Pierce like he’s his _actual_ father.

“Stace sent me,” Bucky explains. “She said she needed you at the house to answer a few things. I thought we’d grab breakfast for everyone.”

“I thought you said you were meeting him here?” Steve asks. Bucky looks at him, blinks twice, and then smiles.

“God, I am so sorry,” Bucky laughs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name right now.” The Bucky Charm is on Steve now, but it doesn’t fit well, like it’s someone else’s coat from the lost and found. “I know you just told me.”

“Steve,” Steve sighs, the word having no weight behind it, like he doesn’t really have a name if Bucky doesn’t know it. “Steve Rogers.”

“ _Captain_ Steve Rogers,” Chase adds. “He’s got a title.”

“Captain,” Bucky chuckles, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I’ll remember next time. Promise.” Steve doesn’t think that can possibly be true. Bucky steps around Steve, brushing his shoulder against Steve’s on his way, and stands next to Alexander. “Dad, the captain was just about to tell a story-”

“We need to go.” Alexander cuts him off, grabbing Bucky too hard by the left arm and tugging him towards the door.

“What? But there’s this dinosaur-” Bucky’s moving even as he protests, like his body is trained to follow orders better than the rest of him.

“It’s a hoax,” Alexander spits, then shoves Bucky out of the door. Alexander slams it behind him, which would have had more of an impact if the door didn’t have a storm door closer on it forcing it to close soft and steady. Also detracting from Alexander’s drama is the fact that it is a glass door, so even when they leave they can still be fully seen. 

Bucky shoves his hand into his pocket and starts to walk down the street in one direction before Alexander grabs him by the back of his coat and hauls him into the other direction. Bucky goes, stumbling a little after he’s shoved that way. Despite the hurry that Alexander seemed to be in mere milliseconds before, he stops at the window, letting Bucky get far enough ahead of him that he has to wait at the crosswalk for Alexander to catch up. Alexander locks eyes with Steve through the glass, leveling a steady glare at him, as he always does, and then, at the end, gives him that malevolent smirk.

*

Clint likes to sit shotgun because the back seat makes him feel like Sam is some kind of Lyft driver. Lyft specifically, not Uber, because most Uber drivers are creeps whereas Lyft at least has some kind of accountability. Sam also likes picking the music, the universally acknowledged right of any front seat passenger, unless they’re a paid intern who has popped more bubble gum than they’ve chewed during this seven hour drive into nowhere. 

They’ve been driving all day, save for the few stops they made for Clint to stretch his legs and Sam to do prayers. They left in the morning and as the day pulls towards evening they are only just now entering the limits of McDunn.

“So it’s not really a dinosaur, right?” Kate asks, leaning forward over the divider in the middle, trying to act all casual, like Sam isn’t going to see her hand reaching ever so slightly towards the scan button. Sam _hates_ the scan option on the radio. He complains about it in text threads with Clint all the time. Sam thinks it moves too fast; he can never catch a song he likes that way. Clint watches Sam’s eyes as they alternate between the road and Kate’s hands. 

“The video is pretty convincing.” Clint reaches behind his seat and pulls out a small bottle of water for Sam— it’s been a while since he’s hydrated. Clint opens the bottle and hands it over, holding his hand out waiting for only a few seconds while Sam’s hand floats in the air, looking to grab the water bottle without looking away from the road. “Is your seatbelt on?”

“Yep,” Kate says, punctuating the “P” with a Pop! that Clint finds funny. She is definitely not getting the radio now. Clint can’t help but wonder why she's looking to poach the radio anyway. Surely if she wants to control the music so much she has some kind of app on her phone. “It was dark and a little grainy.”

“It’s clear enough that everyone is heading to the middle of nowhere to find out for themselves,” Sam says, his hand finally finding the water bottle, and he takes several deep gulps of it. 

Clint hates long car rides. They make him antsy, and it’s too long to sit in one place, but car rides with Sam are different. Sam knows all about Clint and his distaste for long car rides, so he always offers to drive. The only thing worse for Clint than being on a long road trip is being the driver on a long road trip. Sam always drives, whether they’re in the city or going somewhere further afield. He doesn’t even ask anymore if Clint wants to. One time, they let Kate drive, but the power went straight to her head and she ran too many yellow lights for Sam’s liking. Kate isn’t a bad driver, exactly. It’s more just that she’s a fast one, and she takes a lot of risks— the exact kind of driving that makes Sam nervous.

Sam glances over at Clint, cool as a cucumber and even smiling a little. He’s _always_ smiling at least a little; they’ve worked together for almost three years now and Clint has only seen Sam lose his cool twice— outside of his team losing at baseball, that is. Sam is _really_ into baseball, so much so that when they first met Clint told him he _loved_ it too because Clint is an idiot who lies in a misguided attempt to impress beautiful people. Of course, Sam is also an incredible journalist and an even better investigator, so Clint wonders if Sam maybe figured him out from the get go anyway.

Sam can always sense when Clint’s been staring at him, or so he claims, but Clint doesn’t think it’s true exactly. Sam is observant, but Clint is pretty sure he’s only picked up on about forty percent of all the casual staring Clint does. He doesn’t verbally call Clint out on staring anymore, just turns his head and winks as if to say, “I caught you”.

Sam finishes his water and hands the empty bottle back to Clint to throw away. Sam is maybe not in a listening mood now as he turns the radio off completely. Kate stays where she is, so maybe she wasn’t reaching for the radio after all. Clint can’t wait until they can get out of the car. As soon as they pull onto the beach and unload the equipment, he’ll be in a better mood.

“Eddie Brock is going to be there,” Kate says, something like a reminder. They haven’t spoken about it the whole drive but each one of them saw the easter egg on Twitter when it popped up over the GPS. Clint thought they’d all silently agreed not to talk about it.

Some of the water must have spilled out while Sam was drinking because there are droplets in his beard. Sam pulls the neck of his shirt up to wipe it away. Clint is growing a beard right now, and it’s a big hit on all their recent videos. They’re getting loads of upvotes and thirst tweets screaming out for Clint to grow his beard out longer, maybe even braid flowers into it. Clint is a very chill guy, but he’s not sure how to handle that kind of attention. So far, he’s treated it like a parody hostage situation: he’ll keep his beard so long as they don’t all riot. Sam hasn’t said anything about the beard to Clint since he started growing it. It’s been too long to ask Sam _now_ what he thinks, and Clint is pretty sure it’s not the kind of question that one coworker asks of another anyway. 

Sam has an amazing beard, of course. Perfectly coiffed, shaved and shaped to perfection, with such precision Clint is pretty sure Sam’s barber has super human abilities. Clint always wants to tell Sam how much he likes his beard, but that’s _definitely_ not the kind of thing a coworker says to another unless they _want_ to create a hostile work environment. Sam probably knows how good his beard looks, anyway. He doesn’t need validation for it, and even if he did there are upwards of one million followers who _also_ talk about Sam’s beard in thirst tweets. It’s different for Sam though; he can take a compliment, whereas Clint is just confused by it all. 

Clint is pretty sure that Kate is the one who started the online hashtag “BeardBros” for the two of them, and it’s caught on perhaps more than even she anticipated.

Kate snorts out a laugh, her body tipping forward and pushing against the seat belt, which is already stretched to capacity with Kate leaning practically into the front seat. She’s going to have a big red mark from it when they finally get to McDunn. 

Clint isn’t quite sure why she laughed until he looks at Sam again, and he repeats himself, “It’s a beach. I’m sure there will be a lot of barnacles there.” 

It feels like Sam has been waiting to use that one since he came up with it hours ago; perhaps days, since he was so quick to repeat it for Clint that he didn’t have to ask. 

“Parker will be with him, probably. Maybe we should say ‘hi’?” Clint chimes in, and Sam prickles up at that, his hands tightening on the steering wheel for a second before he forces them to relax again. Clint and his stupid mouth; he shouldn’t have brought up Parker. Sam’s been sore about it since last week. 

Clint winces at the chill coming off of Sam. “Sorry,” he says, loud and only a little sarcastic. “Are we not allowed to say his name?” Hopefully if he makes a joke about it, all the tension will just go away.

“He’s a traitor,” Kate offers, very cheery considering she gave Peter a glowing reference when the Daily Bugle called her. Clint wrote a letter of recommendation, but he hasn’t told Sam yet. Sam just seems so disheartened by the whole thing.

“Eddie isn’t gonna investigate a dinosaur. This is too weird for him. Not his vibe,” Sam explains. Clint has always admired Sam’s tact; he can really turn a conversation anywhere he wants.

“The McDisappearances are, though,” Kate replies. “A small town that’s never been investigated before, is barely on the map.” Kate starts counting the reasons off on her fingers. He needs to remember to ask her later where she got those fingerless gloves, because Sam would look so cool with a pair of driving gloves. Like a NASCAR racer, or something classy like motocross. Sam would look so good on a motorcycle.

“Why don’t we drive around on motorcycles?” Clint asks out loud, because sometimes his mouth has a thought without consulting him first.

“That would be so cool,” Kate nods. “I bet America would love me on a motorcycle.” 

Clint checks his watch: she’s gone a full forty-two minutes without mentioning her girlfriend. A new record.

“They’re called ‘hogs’,” Clint offers. Kate shakes her head and pulls her phone out of her back pocket.

“Yeah, no, I’m not calling them that.” Kate unlocks her phone with her face, an aspect of new technology that Clint is deeply uncomfortable with. He can’t help thinking about those youtubers who use makeup to transform themselves into celebrities— would one of them be able to crack the face lock on a WizardPhone?

“Did you ask that because Eddie rides a motorcycle?” Sam asks, sounding somewhat prickly over the whole ordeal. He really is sore about Peter leaving— Sam didn’t show any signs that he had some kind of rivalry with Eddie Brock until they were on the same story in Boston a few months back. Clint wasn’t sure at first why things between Sam and Eddie went sour. The three of them had got along with him perfectly fine. He and Clint spent a good chunk of one night out on a pub crawl with Eddie. He’d certainly seemed like an alright guy. He’s also a disaster, which Clint can relate to. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago, when Parker took the job at the Daily Bugle that Clint found out Sam had interviewed for the job Eddie has there now. The one Parker left their team to go intern for instead.

Clint didn’t know Eddie rode a motorcycle, but it feels a little safer than explaining the real trajectory of his thoughts, so he just shrugs. “I’d ride in the sidecar, if that’s the problem.”

Sam laughs, briefly pauses watching the road to turn and give Clint a smile like he’s earned it. It makes all kinds of organs twist in his lower body.

“Obviously you would ride in the sidecar,” Sam replies. “You’d get a pair of those goggles, too.”

“And just where do I sit?” Kate asks, clicking her phone screen off and shoving it into her back pocket like it isn’t going to buzz with America’s reply in less than fifteen seconds. “Not to mention all of our equipment!”

“You get your own motor tricycle, and we’ll hook a trailer onto the back of it,” Sam answers, way too easily. He has definitely thought about this before.

“Love it when you have a plan,” Clint says, hoping that it’s _just_ this side of funny enough to not put a spotlight on his crush.

“That’s what we say about you behind your back,” Kate adds, and it cuts the tension inside Clint’s shoulders to have her follow up on the joke. She’s even holding off on responding to America— her phone is already in her hand again, poised to unlock— to step in for him. “We call you ‘Sam The Plan Man’.” 

She is the world’s best intern and, however much the network is paying her, Clint knows for a fact that it isn’t enough. 

“Carry on about those disappearances, Kate?” Sam asks, just after she’s unlocked her phone and started texting. “What’s Eddie up to?”

She can text and talk at the same time; she’s just slightly slower at one or the other when she does it. It’s an amazing trick that Clint finds is unique to Kate’s generation. “People vanish here at least six to eight times a year.”

Sam glances at her in the rear view mirror, clearly trying to hold out for her gaze, but he ends up needing to glance back to the road at least twice before she finishes her text and meets his eyes. She answers him, but Clint can’t look between Sam and the back seat quick enough to read their lips. Clint gives Sam a small nudge with his elbow and when he has his attention signs for him to repeat himself. 

Sam doesn’t do it right away, taking another moment to glance at the road before he turns his full face to Clint and says, “Six to eight disappearances a year, she says. That can’t be right. This town is too small for that many. Not even a Walmart for miles.”

“It has less than eight hundred people,” Kate says. She leans between them again, making it much easier for Clint to track the conversation, at least when she isn’t eyes down muttering into her phone.

“No wonder, if they’re vanishing at that rate.” Clint sits up and turns to face both Kate and Sam, pressing his back against the window and putting his legs up on his seat. “How long has this been going on for?”

Kate shrugs. “Hard to tell. I’d need back issues of the local papers to be sure. Somehow it’s never made the national news.”

“You can’t hide that many disappearances,” Clint says, looking at Sam, who seems less sure about that.

“Well, _you_ two didn’t know until just now,” Kate points out. “I bet most of the reporters coming down for the Beast of McDunn don’t know about it either.”

“How do _you_ know about it?” Clint asks, not so much incredulous as impressed, and a little curious to know her sources. She’s going to be a great journalist someday.

“Because it’s literally my job.” She sighs, leaning back in her seat before she remembers she leaned forward for a reason and returns to the position that Clint can see her in. “And I’m really good at it.”

“Now that’s a story I want in on,” Sam says, his lips moving softly like he’s only testing the idea out for now. 

Clint shifts his legs, uncrossing them only to recross them the opposite way. “More than a dinosaur?” he gasps, because he can’t think of any story better, more worth going after, than a living dinosaur. For their show, anyway; Clint knows most of these things turn out to be inconclusive or practical jokes. A mass missing persons story though— and one that hasn’t yet been reported on by a non-local news outlet— is the kind of thing that could truly launch Sam’s career in the direction he wants. Sam’s a true talent, not just a journalist but one that wants to help people, do the right thing. Clint loves working with him, but he can’t deny that this job is well below what Sam is worth. A story like this could get Trish to take Sam seriously, and make the Daily Bugle regret hiring Eddie over him.

“Sam, you're going to want to turn down here and follow the road to the bottom of the hill,” Kate instructs. The GPS stopped working about four miles outside of the McDunn town line, according to the road signs. Clint had spent a couple minutes smacking the device to get it working again before Kate just took it away from him. Luckily, Kate had all the directions saved on her screen. This alone should have given her shotgun privileges— maybe she let Clint take it because he’s her boss. Either that or she pities Clint and his painful crush on his coworker.

Who just got out of a divorce— Clint reminds himself. It’s been over a year since the papers were finalized, and Maria and Sam’s paths never cross much anymore. But still, Sam is vulnerable and Clint is not some kind of predatory monster.

The van pulls to the bottom of a rocky hill that might be considered paved with cobblestones, if it wasn’t obvious the road had never been serviced. Sam puts them in park and turns the engine off. 

Clint is the first one out of the car, needing to move and set up and be useful. Sam and Kate take their time— probably doing long cat-like stretches on the other side of the van. Clint gets the camera out— a job that used to be Parker’s while Kate handled the sound. Now that they are one intern down, Clint and Sam have to switch off and try to catch equal camera time so that they don’t accidentally violate their contracts. Mostly that comes down to what the editor decides to do— but the problem would be easily solved by just replacing Parker. Only they were supposed to conduct interviews for a new intern _today_ and instead they’ve had to haul ass to this middle of nowhere beach to inspect a living, breathing, man eating dinosaur.

That’s not fair— Clint doesn’t know for sure that it _is_ man-eating. If it came out of the water, it’s probably living off of fish mostly. He’ll need to remember to google that when they get some wi-fi.

Sam comes around and grabs a mic box and puts it on while Kate makes sure all the wires and buttons are in place. Holding the camera is a little more hands on than being on screen, but Clint prefers it when it’s both him and Sam in frame, investigating or joking around. He’s pretty sure their bromantic chemistry was the reason they were hired to do the show together. Clint knows he doesn’t feel as natural alone on screen as Sam appears to be. But Sam could make chemistry with a tennis ball on a stick— and in fact has actually done so before, during an April Fool’s day special they did after they got approved for a green screen.

Sam checks himself in the side mirror of the car and Clint aims the camera at him, looking through the lens and using Sam as a base to adjust the focus and find the right lighting and angle. Sam looks at him, winks, and warns him, “You better not be recording.”

“It’s not me,” Clint says, mock innocent. “It’s the camera. It just can’t look away from you.” Sam reacts to this by striking a vogue pose and Clint cheers him on. “That’s it, darling, make love to the camera.”

Sam comes towards the camera then, arms out and lips puckered, and gets way too close to the lense before Clint steps back. “You’ll fog up the lense,” Clint laughs, and it’s enough reason to get Sam to drop his kiss cam game.

Clint almost backs into Kate but manages to miss her at the last moment when she looks up from her phone and quickly steps out of his path. Clint signs her an apology, big camera resting on his shoulder, and she just shrugs, a little smirk pulling at her lips while she looks between Sam and Clint _knowingly_. Clint isn’t sure he likes when she does that— Sam seems to find it funny.

“Barton,” Sam calls his attention back by waving his hand in front of the lens. Clint’s happy to start recording then, catching some bonus footage of Sam smiling in his general direction. Before meeting Sam, Clint thought the only adjectives he could apply to a smile were “cute” or even “sweet”, but Sam has three hundred and sixty-five ways to smile plus ten extra in case of emergency. 

“You recording now?” Sam doesn’t wait for an answer— he can see the red light shining at him. “Let’s do dead wife footage.”

Clint nods in the affirmative before he can think about it, then spares a glance to Kate to make sure she’s not finished setting up— he doesn’t want to keep her waiting while he and Sam dick around. Kate is still rustling about in various bags and pulling out different wires that Clint isn't even sure came with the equipment.

“Okay, I’m ready when you are,” Clint says, attention returning to Sam in time to record him laughing a couple of times, trying to get his giggles out, before he claps his hands. It feels good to do this after a long car ride, though. Sam “gets into position” turning around and pretending to be getting at something in the van.

Sam turns back around and gasps before dissolving into a saccharin smile and teasing, “Oh, I see _someone_ is enjoying his birthday present,” Sam says and then throws in a delightfully stepford giggle.

“Hey, you bought it for me,” Clint replies, playing along and finding it easy to slip into roles with Sam. It should be like this, Clint thinks, not like the dead wife footage, the fake happy marriage thing, but just fun and easy— him and Sam.

“Put that thing away, mister,” Sam laughs, coming up too close to the camera again but not trying to kiss it this time.

Clint backs up a little. “It’s my birthday. Let me play with my things.”

“We have to leave for your parents house in ten minutes,” Sam admonishes. 

Kate’s finished getting ready by this point, and signals this to them by stepping into frame and putting her face so close to the barrel of the camera that she’s out of focus. Clint thinks simply tapping him on the shoulder would have been perfectly fine, though at least she didn’t try to grab the camera away from him this time.

“You two are such dorks,” she teases.

“Kate, when I inevitably die at the hands of some wild villain, it will help serve as a motivator for Clint to track down my killer and seek vengeance if he has video evidence of me being a good wife,” Sam explains very slowly to Kate, like she needs to take in every word of his very funny joke.

“You’re a _great_ wife,” Clint says, turning the camera on Sam to refocus— they probably should start their trek down to the lighthouse keeper’s cabin. “I would burn down an entire city for you, Sam,” he says, and hopes it’s not as embarrassing as it feels when it leaves his mouth without permission.

“Even without the footage?” Sam asks. Clint lifts the camera to roll out his shoulder before he rests it back on there. Parker is such a twig of a kid Clint can’t fathom how he carried this thing around and kept it so steady all the time.

Kate comes over, gets into frame and starts setting up Sam’s mic, hooking it around and handing him the box to shove into his back pocket. It’s so clinical the way she touches him, fast and all business, the way she does everything when her phone has just rung with a text she can’t read immediately. Clint finds it a useful compulsion of hers— she does a fast job but never a bad one. If she and America ever break up, Clint will have his own period of mourning for them. At least _someone_ on this team should have a happy and healthy relationship.

Kate steps out of frame and takes her position in the wings, hands ready to adjust whatever needs adjusting for when Sam starts the interview they're hoping to have with the lighthouse keeper, apparently the first person to have seen the creature. Sam shoots a pair of finger guns at Clint— something he only does to tease Clint because in the first few weeks they worked together Clint was always doing finger guns at Sam, too much of a gay disaster to wave like a normal person.

“Am I ready? How do I look?” Sam asks him and that’s not fair. That’s not a fair question at all, but Clint answers it anyway.

“Better every minute,” he replies. Sam looks behind him to survey the land for the next few feet and then starts walking backwards.

“Salutations BirdBrains,” Sam greets their future audience. “This week on Rare Birds Only Two Left, we’re in the microscopic town of McDunn to investigate the Beast that rose up from the depths last night. Clint and I-” Sam pauses for the exact right amount of time for Clint to wave his hand in front of the lense “-are outside of the first witness’s cabin right now. We’re going to ask him to share his story with us. Let’s check him out.” Sam claps and Clint takes the camera off of his shoulder and lowers it.

“Okay, that was good. Kate, how were we on sound?” Clint asks. Kate gives him a thumbs up and Clint looks back at Sam. “Okay, let’s do another one for safety. You want to try without you walking backwards?”

“Does it look clunky?” Sam asks, concerned— he must really like the walking backwards and talking aesthetic because he’s been doing it a lot more lately. Clint doesn’t hate it, but Sam has been doing it more in videos ever since Boston. It’s a habit in Eddie’s videos, too.

“It comes off a little rushed. I think if you weren’t moving it might flow-” Clint begins before Kate and Sam both crouch and wince, their hands going over their ears. With Sam crouched down, Clint has a clear line of sight to a blond man standing on the porch of the cabin, holding a bullhorn aloft in the air, his finger tight on the button. Clint isn’t sure if the man is done or not so he lofts the camera back up onto his shoulder and begins to walk past Sam and towards the front porch.

“Are you Steve Rogers?” Clint calls to him. The man glares and lowers the bull horn to his side.

“This is private property.” He’s got a heavy beard and he looks somewhat unwashed but otherwise he’s not the type of person Clint was expecting to run a lighthouse. Certainly, Steve Rogers— if that’s who the man is— doesn’t look like the type of person to be a lush or an attention seeker, making up stories about dinosaurs for a little camera time and his fifteen minutes. Steve doesn’t seem to want any kind of attention as he glares Clint down and releases his finger off of the button.

“It’s not, actually,” Clint answers. “Our intern looked it up. This house belongs to the city as a service for whoever keeps the lighthouse. So technically it’s public city property.”

“I’ve had a bad morning,” Steve says as some kind of explanation. “And a bad afternoon. Trust me, you do not want to ruin my evening as well.” Clint pushes past that.

“I bet it wasn’t as interesting as your night.” Clint is able to catch in frame every muscle of Steve’s body tense and hold it.

Sam and Kate come up behind Clint, Kate stopping there to keep out of frame while Sam steps right into it. “Sir, would you be willing to answer a couple of questions about the Beast of McDunn?” Sam asks.

Steve looks at each of them in turn, then surveys the wide emptiness of his beachfront property. He curses under his breath.

“Is it going to be like this all day? All week? How long are people going to bother me for?” It doesn’t sound like Steve expects them to have the answers. Sam offers some up anyway.

“If you give us exclusive story rights,” Sam proposes, “no one else will be able to talk about it with you. You’d only be interviewed once.”

Steve crosses his arms, keeping the bullhorn in his hands just in case he feels inclined to use it on them again. “By you?”

“By us, yes,” Sam confirms, gesturing to their little team, which feels so small without Peter and in front of this large man. “Just fifteen minutes,” Sam offers. “You don’t even have to let us inside the house. Just tell your story on camera and sign a form.”

“I want to be left alone.” Steve sighs; everything about him is so tired, and Clint doesn’t think it’s just because of the long night and difficult day he’s had. There is a collected exhaustion about Steve Rogers, like maybe he’s been tired for years and it all rests on him a lot heavier now than it used to.

“Fifteen minutes and a signature,” Sam pushes again, tone gentle and understanding the way only Sam can make it. “Then you’re as alone as you want to be.”

Steve huffs, displeased but resigned that this really is the best option. Clint lifts the camera up and works on getting the shot just right. Steve finally agrees with a curt nod, setting the bullhorn down on his porch swing. The cushions are dirty, like maybe Steve doesn’t spend much time out here. Steve opens the screen door, then closes it behind him and walks the few steps down and off of the porch. Clint follows him with the camera until Steve is standing too close to Sam— is too tight inside the frame and Clint gestures at him.

“Just take two steps back, Mr Rogers,” Clint requests.

“Captain,” Steve grunts out. “It’s Captain Rogers.”

“Captain,” Sam says cordially, before he gently maneuvers Steve to stand where Clint would prefer him for the shot. “Just tell us about what you saw last night.”

Steve rolls his eyes, keeps them looking upward like he’s hoping for something to fall from the sky and put him out of his misery. Clint wonders if everyone in town is like this— if they have such an attitude about other people. With so many uninvestigated disappearances, it’s not a stretch to think this town is a little more than just anti-social.

Clint hopes it isn’t a cult. It was investigating a cult at his last job before he was hired by TrishTalk.com and set up with Sam. Cults are always so messy and creepy to deal with.

When Steve finally looks downward, he locks eyes with Sam and says, like it means nothing in the world, “Nothing,” and Clint unfortunately catches on tape the moment when Sam’s face falls in disappointment. “I didn’t see anything last night. Just heard a loud noise. Thought it was a ship. Blew the horn to hail it.”

“So was it?” Sam presses. “A ship? Or was it something else?”

“I don’t know what it was.” Steve shrugs his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets, “It wasn’t anything. Probably a,” Steve voice stumbles over a word for a moment before he changes it, “prank, or something. Lot of bored teens in this town.”

“So that’s your official statement?” Sam asks. “There’s no dinosaur? There’s no beast that rose up from twenty thousand leagues?”

“Can’t say that there is,” Steve replies, turning his head and looking out into the sea like he’s just checking to make sure it hasn’t boiled over or something.

“Interesting.” Sam nods and Clint catches his mouth quirk up at the sides before he hits Rogers with, “What about all the disappearances?”

There are two simultaneous reactions to this question that Clint takes special note of: the first is Sam’s. Sam knows this isn’t the story, that’s not what the editor asked them to report on, but he _wants_ that story— Sam doesn’t care about a dinosaur. Maybe he never did; maybe Steve claiming it’s a prank is exactly what Sam was hoping for so he can get at the throat of the _real_ story.

The second is Captain Rogers’. He looks shocked, and then sick, like the mere mention of the vanishings makes his stomach churn. Clint can’t say he blames him. It must be unpleasant -- horrible, even -- to live in a place where so many people are there one minute and gone the next. He can see the way Steve’s coat pulls around his pockets where he’s clenched his hands into fists, like just thinking about it makes him angry and disgusted. Sam looks cool, calm, as he always does.

The editor isn’t going to be happy about the change in priorities, but Sam -- and probably Kate, too, as she’s always had a liking for a loose canon -- is thrilled. Their editor will come around once she sees all the footage they’re going to get. The only person who won’t like it is Trish herself; she doesn’t like having to share her site’s serious journalism segment with anyone. She wants Sam where he does her site the most good, without being allowed to do what he’s actually good at— what he’s better at than her.

When the story broke about the Life Foundation performing unregulated human testing, Sam and Clint were first on the scene, only to be interrupted mid-interview by Trish with her own camera man and two personal interns. She asked them to let her do her job while Sam “stuck to what she pays him for”. In the end, Trish ended up using most of the footage Peter had shot, just with Sam cut out of the frame.

“You didn’t say you wanted to talk about that,” Steve counters, betrayed a little by Sam’s change in course. “You said fifteen minutes and a signature.”

“Well, it’s been about two minutes, and you say there’s no story on a monster. So I’m changing the topic. I never said we couldn’t change the topic.”

Clint is a little aroused. In a normal and professional way, of course.

Steve is still frustrated, maybe a little less disgusted, but he concedes in the end anyway. He shakes his head and his coat pockets relax as he must unclench his fists. “What about them?”

“How many would you say happen on average a year?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. Too many. Nobody really keeps track anymore unless the McDisappearance is someone they know.”

“Small town. You all don’t know each other?” Clint doesn’t really like the term “McDisappearance” -- he would have called it “McDunn and Gone”.

“We forget,” Steve begins, and then seems to change direction. “Or some of us just prefer to be alone. I’ve lived here all my life, and there’s folks here I’ve never said a word to.”

“Did you lose someone to the McDisappearances?”

Steve takes a step back away from Sam, like the question was a slap in the face rather than a reasonable line of inquiry. Sam backs off though— Sam always makes the right call on when to back off.

“What are the theories about where they go?” Sam asks, an offer to talk about this instead, and Steve accepts it, stepping back to his spot again. Clint will make a note to have the editor cut that later. The viewers might think it was cruel to show this very grungy old lighthouse keeper have an emotion about a missing person.

“There’s all kinds. One is that there’s a murderer living in town. Either someone in town, or in one of the underground caves by the lighthouse.”

“Are there any theories that hold more water? Excuse the pun,” Sam adds and it does make Steve _almost_ smile. “Is there one that seems more likely, I mean?”

“Well there’s the rumor that I’m doing it,” Steve offers, and Clint feels Kate perk up next to him, getting in a little closer. She probably gasps or something, because Sam is twisting his face like he’s trying not to react to her.

“That you live in the caves by the lighthouse?” Sam asks. Steve shakes his head.

“No, no,” Steve corrects him. “That’s where I hide the bodies. I go out at night and snatch folks from their beds and feed them to a giant octopus I keep in the underground caves.”

Sam laughs. Maybe it’s hard for him to picture, but Clint finds the way Steve talks and holds himself a little off. Like he maybe isn’t quite right— he’s missing something, or holding something too close to his chest, smothering his heart so it can’t beat properly.

“Has anyone investigated you?” 

“As much as they’ve investigated anyone.” Steve scratches at his beard— it’s not in bad shape; it just clearly needs more love and care. Clint tries to think if he brought any spare beard butter with him— maybe he could give it to Steve.

“Is that not at all?” Sam asks, and Steve nods. “So, are there really caves down under the lighthouse?”

“Oh, there’s underground caves all along the coast. From here to the McDunn Fairgrounds up the way.” Steve draws a line with his finger in the air, starting just a few yards away from where they parked the van and following it all the way up the coast. 

Clint follows the trajectory with the camera, and the second that abandoned amusement park comes into frame he feels a cold chill seize him. It could just be the way the place looks, all dark and foreboding hanging off the edge of a high cliff like that, the roller coaster and ferris wheel looking like the skeletons of monsters. He almost expects a flash of lightning, followed by the villainous cackle of an evil clown. The sky does seem significantly darker on that side of the beach than it does where they are. Or maybe the water is darker, something insidious running deep into the roots of the rocks, right down to where they meet the deep dark of the sea floor. An ominous monster, waiting to rise up and pull them down with other worldly tentacles, a beak big enough to eat a grown man whole.

Clint shakes it off, tries to push the though somewhere else and refocuses on Sam and what he’s saying. “Can we explore those? Are there tours?” Sam asks, getting much more into the story than he was before. He must really want to beat Eddie to the punch on this, if he’s going so hard for it.

“Tours? In McDunn?” Steve scoffs, and then, when he sees Sam is waiting for explanation, checks his watch. It’s no good, though: Clint can tell by the camera timer that it’s only been four minutes since he last checked. “We don’t have anything like that. Anything that might bring in outsiders.”

“You don’t like outsiders?” Sam asks. He glances at Clint, his eyes flicking to the side even as he keeps his body pointed towards Rogers. Clint shifts a little closer and pulls the shot out just slightly. He wants to keep the camera on the interview whilst also being within Sam’s reach— he’s got his back if something goes south with Rogers.

“I don’t feel any way about outsiders,” Steve says, taking a moment to look away from Sam and survey Kate and Clint respectively. “Provided they don’t bother me.”

“So the town, then - not a fan of outsiders?” Rogers shrugs and the line of questioning dies there. Sam takes another run at it, “Is there a link between the people who go missing?” Sam presses— god, he looks so hot when he goes after a story like this. Clint feels like his girl Friday holding the camera. 

He zooms out a little too quickly, realizing he’s been caressing Sam’s face with the camera for he doesn’t know how long.

“They were all here. I don’t know,” Steve shrugs taking a few steps back.

“There’s no one they all talked to? Someone they had in common? Even just before they went missing?”

"Like you said, it's a small town-- everyone's got at least one mutual acquaintance with everyone else. But, no, there's no real link between the disappearances."

“There has to be something. Gender, race, age, hair color, hobbies, favorite food--” Sam is giving off such reporter vibes right now. He should be promoted— Clint knows it. Sam’s time would be better spent on real stories, stuff like what Eddie does. Not wasting his life looking out for faux dinosaur sightings and driving Clint long hours across the country.

“If you want the police records,” Steve says, short and mean, “then go to the police station. I’m not a detective. I just live here.”

“They have you in common?” Sam asks— it feels like a killing blow, although Steve maybe doesn’t realize it yet.

“Excuse me?” Steve keeps turning and staring directly into the camera, and it’s such a bad look when interviewees do that, though it does make it easier for Clint to read his lips. He should maybe pause the interview and tell Steve to just look at Sam and not at him or Kate, but Sam is on a roll and Clint wouldn’t stop recording for anything right now.

“You said that people think it’s you, right? You’re the man in the town spiriting people away. So, did you know all of them?” 

“No,” Steve huffs. “No, I didn’t know all of them. Some of them happened before I was even born.”

“Loads of serial killers have copycats,” Clint says, and Sam shoots him a look of gratitude. Clint may not have the chops Sam has for true crime journalism, but he can at least show Sam has backup if he needs it— that Rogers should stay cordial.

“Fifteen minutes are up,” Steve says, and he’s technically right, there’s only just over thirty seconds left on the clock. He turns around and stomps up two steps on his porch before Sam stops him.

“We’re gonna check those records,” Sam says, his tone making this sound more like an invitation than a warning— Sam is offering Steve a chance to reveal _something_ and Clint doesn’t know what it is but he can’t wait to find out. “Not just the police ones you mentioned. My intern has an appointment at the library later to go through the microfiche back issues of the local paper. So if we’re going to find something, maybe you want to tell us now? So we don’t have to come back here again.”

Steve’s shoulders heave with the force of his sigh. He reaches for the doorknob, holds it, and then drops his hand and turns back around to face them. “Come inside, then,” he grumbles, jabbing his thumb at the door behind him. “I’ll make you a cup of tea and tell you...whatever you want to know.”

“I wanna know who you lost,” Sam answers evenly; he’s not a liar, but to be a truly talented reporter one doesn’t have to be. He wants to make sure his sources know what to expect. Sam is about to ask Steve to tell him every detail about something painful— much more painful than the rubber dinosaur prank he witnessed— and Steve needs to be prepared for that before he boils the water for their tea.

“That’s a long list,” Steve says, too sad for it to not be true, and then he opens the door and gestures for them to come inside. “You have a stand you can set that thing on?” Steve asks Clint, gesturing to the camera that is digging into his shoulder. Clint hadn’t even noticed— he was so focused on Sam absolutely killing this interview. He pats the camera bag at his side where the tripod should be.

Clint nods and follows after Sam, Kate, and Steve, who shuts the door behind them. Steve’s house is a modest three bedroom with two stories. Only about a thousand square feet, if that, and Clint thinks he should move out of the city. This cottage feels big compared to his cramped little apartment. He can barely fit Lucky in with him and he feels bad for him— dogs should have big spaces to run around. Clint should get a farm and move out to where he can have a backyard and a spare bedroom. Maybe raise some chickens.

Steve takes them into the kitchen and Clint notices that Steve moves around the place like he’s waiting for a ghost to touch him. Not talk to him, or hurt him, just touch and leave him cold. Maybe a ghost is. Clint sets the camera on the dining room table and tries to roll the soreness out of his shoulder.

“Set up in the living room,” Steve orders them, after so long that it barely counts, adds, “please”. 

Sam looks at Clint and rolls his eyes. Clint nods in agreement.

Sam carries the camera into the other room, making sure to give Clint’s sore shoulder a little squeeze when he passes by. He’s so gallant to be taking the equipment from Clint. Clint glances back at Steve first, watching the man bustle around his little kitchen collecting an assortment of mugs that don’t match each other, before he follows Sam into the living room.

Sam’s pointing at each piece of furniture and moving it in the air with his hand, wearing the same expression he always does when he’s mentally rearranging a room. It’s so funny to watch Sam play tetris in real time. Impressive how he can do it with just one hand. Sam looks through the camera, sweeping it around the room to make sure the shot is going to look good. He’ll want to execute moving the furniture as soon as he gets even a remote go ahead from the owner— better yet, he’ll want it moved before Steve comes in so he can’t stop them. 

While Sam’s deciding how he wants to do it, Clint rifles through his bag for the tripod, only to realize he left it in the car. He looks at Kate beseechingly, signing for her to run out and get the stand from the van. 

She goes, quickly and happily, probably in the hopes that she won’t be asked to move furniture— that it’ll even all be done by the time she gets back from the van. Probably she’ll find something out there to occupy her attention for the ten to fifteen minutes it’ll take Sam to rearrange the space.

Once she’s gone, Sam sets the camera down and comes over to Clint, close enough that he can smell the products Sam puts in his beard but still maintaining enough distance for Clint to look at him. He’s obviously trying to tell him something top secret without the lighthouse keeper eavesdropping, because he’s trying to speak without whispering, only mouthing the words, and overemphasizing his mouth movements. It doesn’t make reading lips all that easier for Clint, but it’s sweet and a little funny because Sam looks ridiculous when he does it.

“Don’t drink the tea,” Sam warns him. “He could still be a serial killer.”

“Should we sneak into the basement?” Clint asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet at the thought of getting some quality creepy basement footage. Clint likes how tall he looks in basements on camera. “Wait, do people in Maine even have basements?”

“They have basements everywhere,” Sam answers, his eyes searching around the parts of the house he can see, trying to spot the door to the hypothetically intriguing basement.

“You probably have to pay extra for it, though. I bet it’s a bunch more work. You’d have to dig, what? Four feet before you break frost depth.” Clint taps the eerily clean hardwood floors of Steve’s living room as if he can find an answer that way.

Sam gives Clint a look from top to bottom and smirks like he _knows_ that foot tap was bullshit. “Yeah, we get it, you’re landlord of the year.”

“It’s more than that. I should have my own renovation show.” Sam rolls his eyes and throws his hands in the air like he’s done with this conversation already, and yet he doesn’t turn away from Clint or even interrupt him. “Or I should at least _appear_ on one. What if we did a crossover episode with The Property Brothers?”

Sam laughs hard enough that his shoulders go to his ears. “What would that even be? What would Thor and Loki Odinson even do on our show?”

“We’d figure it out,” Clint says, but he can tell Sam’s mind is somewhere else. Like Clint’s should be. He refocuses on the story— and possible serial killer— at hand, kneeling down and searching in the bag for his viewfinder. He only glances up at Sam half a dozen times— impressive, since Sam looks _great_ from this angle.

Clint looks around the room, trying to find some curtains he could open or lamps he could move to create the best lighting. 

Sam taps Clint’s knee with his foot to get his attention. “Do you want to be on camera for this one?” he asks, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, apparently anxious that he’s overstepped and taken too much screen time from Clint.

Clint shakes his head quickly to ease him. “No way, man, you’re on fire with this guy. You take lead.”

“You sure?” Sam asks, but already he’s looking at Clint with such warmth and gratitude that he couldn’t change his mind now even if he wanted to.

“Yeah,” Clint stands tall and rolls his shoulder, the ache easing off the longer he isn’t lugging that weight around. “Trust me, the chemistry between you two on camera is electric. We can’t break that flow.”

“I’m thrilled you think I have chemistry with a serial killer,” Sam says. “You ever thing maybe I’d prefer someone who’s washed his beard this year?”

“Well, it’s only March, Sam. Give the man a chance.” Clint crouches again, going up and down slowly and looking through the viewfinder to find how tall he wants to set the tripod.

Kate comes back just at the fifteen minute mark and looks disappointed that they haven’t moved a single piece of furniture while she’s been gone. She sighs, tossing the tripod to Clint. He catches it , then kneels down to get it set up and steady.

Kate looks around the room before asking, “Why can’t I hear water boiling?” 

It’s a strange question, and Clint doesn’t see why she’s asked it until Sam bolts from the room into the kitchen. He must curse, because Kate signs one to him, snickering a little in the way she does when she hears one of them curse. They need to stay at a certain rating on the show, so they both practice mild cursing in everyday life to keep it appropriate and easy when they’re recording. Their editor practically begged them to— she was tired of bleeping out so much. Every once in a while, though, something will happen that enrages them so much that profanity slips out.

Clint can feel the movement of Sam as he rushes from room to room and back again, his search coming up fruitless.

Something like losing their witness after he tricks them and sneaks out of the back— that would merit a curse from one of both of them.

Clint obliges. He’d hate to leave Sam to bear that alone.

*

Steve doesn’t feel bad about it— to begin with. At first, he feels kind of amazing about it, actually, clever and tricky the way he and Bucky would play as kids. He;s also a combination of stunned, impressed, and amused by how easy it was for him to slip away— that the ruse worked _at all_ , considering how sharp and experienced the journalist had seemed to be.

He does feel a little bad about it once the feeling of loneliness settles in around him, once he’s far enough away and the only heart he can hear beating is his own. It doesn’t beat right, it never has, and every once in a while Sarah would tell the story of how, when she was pregnant with him, the doctors said Steve would never make it. How it might be better for her to spare herself all that pain.

She ignored the, and now Steve’s heart has a rhythm all its own, tapping out a beat that is more akin to morse code than the regular sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones. Bucky used to say it was code, that it was the signal his own heart was reading— radio waves going out across the miles, signaling to Bucky’s heart and Bucky’s heart alone.

Steve understands that they wanted a story— any story Steve could provide them. Or so it seemed, since their leader hadn’t pressed him on the dinosaur nearly as much as Ty, Tandy and Chase did this morning. 

Steve is a great storyteller, but only because he learned from Bucky. The man could weave a story like a net to wrap around you and pull you in. He tries to remember if maybe any of the kids had ever met Bucky. They had been very young when he disappeared. It was unlikely that they knew him, or even knew _of_ him, since he’d walked into The Diner that morning and none of the kids had said anything. They hadn’t even flinched when they “found out” that Alexander Pierce had “a son”. 

He doesn’t, Steve is pretty sure. He might have had a family, a long time ago, but one by one they left him to rot in the obscurity of McDunn. Or not, since what Bucky had said seemed to imply that there was a sibling; Stace -- Stacey? -- has just moved to McDunn, and so Bucky has a sister again. Maybe an older one— Steve hopes not a twin. HeSteve fears what he’ll feel if he comes across this Stace and she’s really Becca standing before him, blinking at him without recognition the same way Bucky had. 

But then, if Bucky is going by James now, it would make sense for Becca to go by— well, Rebecca. Steve shrugs— maybe Stacey was Becca’s middle name. He feels horrible that he doesn’t remember Becca’s middle name. It feels like something he should know, he should have reminded himself of every day. He’s the only one left to properly remember them, so it’s imperative that Steve _remembers them all properly_. But he’s let it slip away from him, like sand sinking through his fingers.

Like Bucky did, all those years ago.

The feeling, the knowing loneliness, ebbs as Steve walks closer and closer towards the Stein house on Nightshade. He could have stayed on the beach, walking for a while to make himself calm down after such a huge run of events— and the day isn’t even over yet. Sunset isn’t for another hour. Steve had tried to spend the daylight sleeping. He blames not being able to on those pesky reporters, but the truth is he’d been restless, tossing and turning for hours after he left The Diner. He couldn’t sleep— he needed to think about Bucky Barnes. It was imperative that he think about James Buchanan Barnes.

_Bucky_.

Steve reaches his old neighborhood, each block holding a different memory of him and Bucky as kids. His loneliness sleeps again as he passes houses and neighbors— some waving at him and others closing their blinds fast and tight. On any other day Steve would feel hurt by that, even as he pretended to let it roll off his back while he stomped past the place where he and Bucky spent years together. Today, however, for no other reason than that he feels it bubbling up, unstoppable, he laughs. 

It’s funny— it’s so funny to Steve that he used to be a wisp of a child with a bad heart and not even a hundred pounds wet or dry. They’re closing their blinds and forcing cordial smiles and waving at _him_ because they’re scared of the lonely Captain Rogers. He laughs so hard he has to stop walking, only a couple of blocks from the Steins’ house, and he leans against an old oak tree, almost as big around as Steve himself.

It’s sad and it’s unusual— Bucky would be crying from laughing so hard, if he could see it too. Bucky would be the only one who understood how hilarious it is that Steve Rogers is so dangerous one must close their blinds.

Steve hears him, Bucky, not laughing but groaning with disappointment and frustration. He looks around, his heart beating faster, that double step ticking beats instead of four or eight— and sees Bucky, still in the clothes he’d had on at The Diner and still in the unpleasant company of Alexander Pierce. Even though Steve’s spotted his target, he keeps looking around anyway, searching for other people. The ones who waved at him have gone inside, and every house on the block has shut out Captain Steve Rogers.

Alexander is marching down the street, not dragging Bucky by the arm this time; instead, Bucky follows him as if on an invisible leash— a dog trained and trusting enough to walk at his master’s heels untethered. 

“Dad, I’ve been moving boxes all day,” Bucky whines. “I just want to go out for an _hour_.”

Alexander laughs without humor and stops walking. Bucky comes close to bumping into him, but stops in front of Pierce and waits for orders, his hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed.

“An hour,” Alexander sneers. “Just ‘an hour,’” he says. And just what do you think you’re going to do in that hour, hm? Exactly how are you going to be useful?”

“I didn’t realize being useful was _required_ of me twenty-four-seven.” Bucky is mouthing off, a difference from how he used to be— it was always Steve with the bruise on his face and his stubborn gob still yapping at whoever had done wrong. Bucky had always been calm and charming in the face of antagonization. But here he is sulking and sassing off when it’s clear _someone_ , almost certainly Pierce, probably slapped him mere minutes ago for doing just that.

“Do you think you’re here to have fun?” Pierce clearly doesn’t expect an answer, and Bucky doesn’t interrupt to offer one, so Alexander goes on. “You can’t go walking around town. Rogers seeing you was a disaster. A mess I expect Stacey won’t be able to clean up. I’ll have to do it.”

“Dale might help,” Bucky offers with a shrug and that makes Alexander laugh genuinely. Bucky smiles at that— at Alexander taking his joke in and enjoying it rather than acting like his cruel and snarling self. Steve finds himself poised, parked tensely behind his tree, just waiting for Pierce to give something away about Bucky, to leave Bucky alone so Steve can approach him.

“Dale is useless,” Alexander says, still amused but speaking as if Dale’s shortcomings are objective facts. “Dale never helps. The children would be better helpers.”

“What’s so bad about Rogers seeing me?” Bucky asks— a question that sours Alexander’s mood instantly.

“You stay away from him,” Alexander warns Bucky, dark and menacing in a way Steve always felt he was capable of but hasn’t experienced until now.

“Is he bad news or something?” Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer, maybe hoping to throw so many questions at Alexander that the man lets some answers slip. “It’s because I look like his boyfriend or whatever, right?”

Alexander closes his eyes and makes a very big show of taking a deep breath. When he opens them again, he looks around, scanning for something. Steve keeps himself still, confident in his hiding space and knowing movement will only reveal him. Alexander comes to the same conclusion Steve had mere minutes ago: no one is watching. They are alone.

“Rogers seems harmless,” Bucky continues. “Just a lonely guy. He was real nice about my nose-” 

Alexander smacks Bucky across the face with the head of his cane, a cliche little silver thing in the shape of a viper, mouth open and fangs sharp.

It breaks the skin, and before the blood even starts to drip out of Bucky’s wound Steve is already grabbing Alexander by the lapels and slamming him into the closest surface, a fence. Steve doesn’t look around to see the curtains open— doesn’t particularly care who sees them, because Alexander smacked Bucky over the face just for talking about Steve.

“Unhand me,” Alexander snarls, more angry than scared, which is disappointing but ultimately something Steve can work with. The cane is caught between two boards of the fence, the eyes of the snake glittering green at him while it rocks back and forth from the momentum of being dropped, its mouth open and waiting to devour souls.

“He didn’t mean to do it,” Bucky begs from behind him, hovering close but not touching Steve, like he wants to but there’s too many reasons not to. He’s just been told in no uncertain terms to keep away from Steve, and Steve has, as far as Bucky knows, his father pinned to the harsh wood of the fence. “Hey, Captain, come on now, he didn’t-”.

“James,” Alexander snaps at him. “Get him off of me this instant.” 

Now Bucky touches him, quick and hard like he was waiting for the order, tugging hard on his leash to be allowed to do it. Steve only lets go of Pierce because Bucky is pulling him back. 

Bucky makes himself an obstacle between the two of them, standing with his back to Pierce and his eyes coldly glaring at Steve.

“Let’s all just calm down now, shall we?” Alexander sighs, smiling a little towards the end of the question as he straightens his coat and tries to smooth out the wrinkles Steve’s fists created. “James, you’re coming home with me. Captain Rogers is headed his own way.” 

Alexander leans down to pick up his cane, pointing the jaws of the snake in Bucky’s direction and taps his cane in a specific but unfamiliar rhythm. Bucky stands at attention— a soldier saluting command. Steve’s surprised he doesn’t _literally_ salute Alexander.

“Ready to comply,” Bucky says, distant and unbothered. There’s still blood on his cheek, a lot of it. Bucky always ends up bleeding when Steve’s around.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers— it turns something in him, Steve knows, because Bucky’s eyes look a little lost. Steve can see a storm rolling in deep in the grey of his eyes. Bucky is fighting something-- why is it so hard for him? What’s keeping Bucky from remembering Steve. Steve whispers, “Bucky,” again, like it’s the wind in the sails to pull Bucky from the danger of the serpents at his back.

“James,” Pierce says, like a counter offer, and Bucky’s body does sway back, towards Pierce.

“What have you done to him?” Steve snarls, lunging at Pierce before he thinks twice about it. When Bucky stops him, his hand on Steve’s large chest strong enough to push him away, it feels like a parody of their lives, all the times Bucky has stopped Steve from rushing into a fight.

Only, this is at Pierce’s behest— it’s to stop Steve from hurting someone else. Before now, Bucky has only ever stopped a fight to keep someone else from hurting Steve. 

“You know me,” Steve says, looking at the way Bucky’s fingers are splayed out against his chest. 

Bucky blinks. “Steve?” he asks, quiet and trembling like he’s afraid of the name. It’s there in his eyes, though— Bucky is remembering something that goes deeper into his bones than whatever Pierce has done to him. “Your heart,” Bucky says, eyes sliding away from Steve’s like rain slides down glass and he stares at where his hand rests over Steve’s chest, “the beat.”

Steve nods and walks forward, his chest pressing into Bucky’s hand like maybe proximity is the problem. Steve just needs to be closer to Bucky, just has to crawl inside of him and make his home again.

Pierce is a devil without the cane, but he’s much more formidable with it. He slams it into Bucky’s arm, breaking the connection and possibly Bucky’s wrist as well. Bucky takes several steps back, holding his wrist to his chest in pain, and hits up against the picket fence. He leans against it, tries to find port and home but he’s so far away, the undertow dragging him into the dark depths again. The place Steve can’t follow him to.

Pierce puts himself between Bucky and Steve, a bold move considering Alexander needed Bucky to stop Steve from beating him to a pulp mere moments ago. But there the man stands, and with the audacity to smirk.

“He doesn’t know you.” Pierce begins to tap his cane again, the beats a little too fast at first, but once Pierce finds the right rhythm -- something that doesn’t take him longer than half a minute -- Bucky slowly draws up to standing at full attention. “James, let’s get back to Stacey and the girls,” Alexander calls to him— has the audacity to even start walking away.

Bucky doesn’t follow him immediately, gets as far as standing up from the fence before he meets Steve’s gaze again. He smiles, full and bright, not at all like a man who’s wrist may be broken. “Got to go, Captain,” he says, so easily they might as well be back at The Diner, before Bucky’s nose bleed interrupted them. He winks. “See you around.”

He turns on his heel and follows after Pierce, catching up with him pretty easily and then walking casually, at Alexander’s pace, as if Bucky is scared to rush him. Like he’s really concerned about the health and wellbeing of Alexander Pierce.

The sun is down now, Steve notes, those last moments of daylight struggling to stay with him— like the awareness in Bucky’s eyes when he couldn’t hold onto himself.

He called him “Steve” and it felt like the green flash before the horizon goes dark.


	4. Four

Chapter Four:

The Diner is usually open until nine at night, and closing up takes Tandy half an hour at least. Ty always helps her put all the chairs up on the tables before she mops. It’s a little tradition, started once Tandy began covering more shifts than her mother and had to mop the floors every night. The mopping is the thing that takes the longest and it’s the hardest on Tandy physically. She’s exhausted from running around all day and the labor intensive nature of mopping always leaves her sore. There’s nothing Ty can do about the floors, but putting the chairs up so Tandy doesn’t have to only takes him a few minutes.

He likes doing it for her. He likes the routine of it— the way, every time, she comes out of the kitchen with the mop and bucket and looks around to see he’s done it for her, she’ll fan herself like she’s getting too hot and say, “You’re a prince among men, Tyrone Johnson,” or something equally as flattering but unique to Ty. Other than basic politeness to customers— which Tandy doesn’t always adhere to all that often anyway— Ty is pretty sure he’s the only person she says nice things to. Certainly, she’s been calling him a “prince” a lot more lately. Maybe because he smiles every time and she can tell he likes it.

Tonight, she’s closing almost four hours early— something she’s only done on holidays and special occasions like Ty or Billy’s birthdays. August -- bringing with it both Billy’s birthday and the date he disappeared -- will burn up the asphalt this year, so hot it will feel like it’s melting, something that holds Ty’s shoes to the ground, a sticky substance that slows him down. 

When Billy ran out of the parking lot that day, six years ago, he wasn’t slowed down at all. There was nothing on this earth that could hold him back, and every year Ty wonders how Billy could run so far, so light on his feet, with the sun turning the parking lot into a sticky pit. Billy was always faster than him, though. After six years, Ty can only picture Billy as more than himself: faster, smoother, taller, stronger, and smarter, pushing all of those skills into being an older brother. Nineteen, should have been away at college already but instead sticking around to look out for their family— for Ty.

Every year when the day Billy disappeared rolls around, Ty doesn’t leave the house— it’s painful to be away from his parents on that day. He still hasn’t told them Billy’s last words. They haven’t asked, and he’s not sure he could bring himself to say them. At the end, Billy was still worried about Ty, still looking out for him, still throwing himself in the way of danger just so it skirted around Ty and went after him instead.

_“Stay here, drink water, stay safe,” Billy ordered him, “I’ll be back later, okay? I’ll come back, just stay.”_

Last words are almost always lies, anyway— even if they weren’t intended to be. Billy must have meant it, must have intended to come back and protect Ty like he always did. Last words are hardly ever _intentioanlly_ last— if Billy had planned on never coming back, he would have said something more meaningful to Ty. Last words linger, an echo that bounces off itself in a dark tomb, a sound the grieving heart can hear so clearly it feels like it comes from inside of him. His chest is the tomb, and the way his heart beats within a clenched fist is the echo. In his heart, he will always hear that unfulfilled promise. He’ll always listen for finality, the last note that never plays. 

Ty isn’t sure what Tandy does on that day, if she thinks about her father’s last words, if she hears them rattle inside of her in the same way, or if she’s forgotten them after so many years of trying. Ty knows The Diner is closed, and he knows she doesn’t spend it with her mom. She must disappear somewhere— she likes to be alone when it comes to her dad, likes it quiet.

Ty has always had trouble with those two days coexisting in the same twenty-four hour period. It’s hard to remember that the day he met Tandy was the day she almost died, the last time he saw his brother, _and_ the last time Tandy saw her dad. She needs to spend that day in her own sanctuary, just like he does with his parents. Grief is sacred, private, and unique. They’ve never said as much; it’s a delicate topic, and Tandy would rather run than bring it up anymore. Without speaking it into existence, he and Tandy have always understood that about each other, how that day is for grief— that day is for being apart, rather than together.

There’s no such anniversary for them today, though, but she’s been busting to close up ever since the Langs finished their meal and left. She brings the mop out, looks around and lands on him with a smile. She puts her hand over her heart and swoons on the support of the mop as she says, “What would I do without you?”

Ty sits up on the counter, letting his legs dangle, and talks to her while she mops. It’s an innocent question, but he wishes she hadn’t asked it. There’s no innocent answer— he feels like he can’t say anything, not when living in McDunn means he can’t promise she’ll never have to be without him. 

She doesn’t make him answer, though, just rolls the mop bucket out onto the floor and slaps the mop down. Ty likes it this way. Just the two of them alone and comfortable, even when they’re quiet. He likes to talk, too, and he knows it helps Tandy feel like the time goes faster if they chat together. When they have nothing to say, Tandy puts a playlist on and one or both of them will mumble along to the music. It’s a routine— it’s their _thing_ , and Ty can’t help but count down in his head to the day he goes off to college and it won’t be like this anymore.

He can’t bring her with him. They can’t be joined at the hip their entire lives. He knows that. But he’s not sure how long it will take to get used to not having her by his side— if he even _wants_ to get used to it, if he even _can_. He’s going to feel so lonely without her.

When Ty was ten, Billy hadn’t started looking into colleges yet. He was only sixteen going on seventeen but their mom wasn’t subtle about making him think about it. She brought it up everytime she found them playing Super Smash Brothers, asking _didn’t Billy have something more productive he could be doing_? in a way that made it clear it wasn’t a question. Ty always rolled his eyes and pouted a little, hating that their mom thought that Billy playing with him was frivolous, like Ty wasn’t as important as school. Ty didn’t know much about college back then, except that it was important to their parents, and meant Billy wouldn’t be around as much anymore.

Maybe that was why Ty had made himself such a hindrance everytime Billy actually did pick up a brochure or look at a scholarship online. He’d thought he could delay it— if Billy didn’t pick a school, he could stay home and play with Ty all the time. Back then, the most horrible thing he could imagine was Billy being gone two semesters out of the year. 

Hindsight would make him laugh at the irony, but it’s not funny.

“Lot on your mind tonight?” Tandy asks, starting to mop the area next to him, and he realizes that she’s been mopping in silence for more than a few minutes.

“What?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs. He imagines she feels the way he did as a kid about Billy going off to college, scared about not seeing him everyday, wanting to delay the inevitable.

“You’re quiet. In your own little world up there.” She turns around and walks backwards, swiping the mop at any tracks she left behind her. “Rumlow has been coming around at closing time,” she offers. “Thank God we’ll be locked up and shut down before he gets here.”

Ty doesn’t want to talk about Rumlow, but now all he can think about is the creep catching them when they walk home. Ty doesn’t know Rumlow’s driving schedule, but maybe he’ll be so preoccupied with the influx of tourists he won’t have time to stop in on them anyway. “What if he wants to know why you closed early?”

Tandy doesn’t try to hide the sneer as she picks up the mop and slaps in down again like she’s angry with it. “I’ll tell him I’m on my period,” Tandy mutters. “That always sends him running.”

Ty laughs a little— last time Rumlow came in while he was there, Tandy had asked Ty to run to the back to get the tampons off the high shelf for her. They aren’t kept in the kitchen storage area, but it got Ty out of Rumlow’s grip that day; that was one of the “grab me a coffee, wouldya?” days, which are only mildly less upsetting than the times Rumlow asks Ty leading questions about Billy. 

Lately, Rumlow’s been stopping in to wish Tandy a happy birthday, setting bait for a trap that Tandy still gets her hand caught in sometimes. Rumlow never lets a day pass without letting Tandy know he’s really excited for her eighteenth birthday this year. Last time, he wouldn’t drop it until Ty called to the front, “What’s the flow? You need overnights or midweek padding?” Rumlow was so audibly disgusted it had sounded to Ty like he’d vomited right there, saying something about keeping a clean mouth in front of customers before he left.

Everything Rumlow says is a taunt— his last words will undoubtedly be something mocking and cruel, a testament to his life. 

“You know what I think of, every time he leaves?” Tandy asks, and Ty shakes his head. “Animal Farm.”

“That last line, yeah?” Ty asks, a little giddy like he always is when she proves she’s read a book he lent her. “The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.” She nods to confirm it, and Ty leans forward again, smiling. “Orwell is a master at last lines.” She doesn’t respond to that, probably because she’s been struggling through other Orwell works since freshman year and doesn’t have any to compare them to. “It’s hard to make last words matter like that.”

“You never hear that about first words,” Tandy says, “not books but people’s.” She bends a little low to work the mop, and the pen she keeps tucked behind her ear falls out. Ty almost jumps down from the counter to pick it up for her, but her reflexes are sharp enough to grab it before it hits the floor.

When she looks back up at him, he’s in a half crouch to stand before he relaxes into sitting again. She chuckles. “You want to go down to the beach that bad, huh?”

He smiles and wonders if this is a _Tandy sparing Tyrone’s feelings_ subject change, or if she really thinks he’s stressing out over not seeing a dinosaur. It’s not a totally unfair assessment— Ty very much wants to see a dinosaur. It’s an uncanny Tandy thing, that she offers him something else to think about, something to take his mind off of whatever he’s about to spiral into. Tandy has always kept him steady since Billy’s vanished, just like he does for her. It’s worse with the pressure of Billy’s unlived life hanging over him, fabric woven around his neck and his limbs, a thing always pulling him away.

What if he leaves town and when he comes back she’s vanished like Billy? All because he left her. It’s worse because she knows, and he knows, and they have to talk about it. He needs to tell her about NYU, the scholarship, that he wants to go and doesn’t. That he’s more afraid than excited and he wishes he could shake that off. It feels like there’s some kind of danger, waiting in the dark to strike when she’s unguarded.

But Tandy Bowen doesn’t have tough conversations— Tandy Bowen runs away from things, the same way Billy used to. The last image Ty has of Billy is him running— jeans tattered at the ankles so bad the denim hangs loose and Billy could trip on them.

“Oh my god, Johnson,” she says, loud and mock-annoyed, further down the counter than he expected her to be. She must really want to get out of here, with the way she’s mopping a little faster tonight than usual. “Take the world off your shoulders for two minutes.”

He smiles and pushes the thought of Billy running and the fear of Tandy disappearing out of his mind. “I’m just thinking, that’s all. Busy day, Bowen. Let me get my bearings.” Ty has a lot of thoughts like that: things he wishes he could keep away. Whenever he has one he pictures it on an index card, written neatly and filed under different categories of fear, pain, and anger. All those nasty feelings he shouldn’t let consume him, but still they do.

Ty pictures his spine as one long tall set of drawers for a library catalogue. His tragedies are alphabetized, and he knows just where to find them. He pictures pulling out one of the drawers and filing the index card away, shutting it away in his bones. It helps his posture.

Tandy’s at the back now and she shoots him a knowing look but doesn’t press him. She’s getting better at learning when to press him. “Captain Rogers, right?”

“Since when would anyone willingly reproduce with Alexander Pierce?” Ty asks. 

“Some people will let anything go if it’s got blonde hair and blue eyes,” Tandy replies, slapping the mop down again to scrub hard at a sticky spot on the floor where someone spilled syrup earlier.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he says, and it’s almost light, almost a joke, except in the spaces where it isn’t, everything between the letters. There’s no key to lock the card catalogue; the drawers could slide open at any time and all the index cards could come spewing out like in the opening scene of Ghostbusters.

Tandy stops mopping for a moment to glance over at him, and from the way her shoulders tense he’s sure she’s about to get defensive. Instead she looks back down and uses that tension in her shoulders to scrub hard at the place on the floor that’s been tripping her up all day. He counted ten times alone where she was thrown off balance because her sneakers caught on it.

“Blue eyes are boring,” she says instead. “You ever notice there’s only, like, two shades? Brown eyes are like fingerprints; couldn’t name every color I’ve seen if I made a list.” 

Ty can keep the drawers shut if he lets Tandy distract him. He eases into the escape.

“You have a shade for mine?” He tries to make it teasing, but it leaves his mouth wrong and trips through the space between them like a baby fawn. He remembers Billy being so smooth with girls— boys, too. Billy was always so charming. People wanted him to _be_ places all the time.

As awkwardly quick as he asked the question, she answers in easy time— like she had the color in the barrel. “Stromatolite onyx. Just enough slivers of gold to make them shine.” 

“You think about fossils a lot?” he asks. She must have actually read that book on rocks and minerals she stole from his treehouse when they were kids. It’s a little unfair; he’s sure that if he had the book he could rattle off a color for her eyes, too. Without the book to reference the exact color and tone Ty would say “tiger’s eye”.

She continues her serpentine movement across the floor, giving up on her battle with the syrup spill, and walks the conversation back. “My question is, since when would anyone _move_ here to visit Pierce? To spend time with him.”

“How did Rogers know his son?” Ty asks, as if Tandy has the answer. She shrugs and then puts a little extra elbow grease on a particularly nasty coke stain under the back booth that’s been there for years. As often as she trips on obstacles in The Diner, she always catches herself, always lands gracefully and unharmed like a cat.

“Never seen him hug anybody before,” Tandy replies. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him _touch_ anybody before, either.”

“I thought Rogers was a ghost, actually,” Ty says, pulling his legs up onto the counter and crossing them. He’s careful to keep his shoes off the counter— he doesn’t want her to have to wipe it down again. She returns his little joke with a snort and it spurs him on. “I’m serious. I thought the guy was just, like, this ghost who haunted the lighthouse.” Ty gestures to the room around them. “And the only way to keep him tame was to give him coffee.”

“The lighthouse doesn’t have ghosts,” Tandy replies. “The fairgrounds, on the other hand.”

“Oh, yeah, that place is _definitely_ haunted. Like a hundred percent,” Ty agrees. Tandy wrings the mop out into the dirty bucket and pushes it into the back to sit by the door.

“I know what you mean about Rogers, though,” Tandy says, picking up a cleaning cloth and her little bottle of lemon disinfectant. She hurries to wipe the barstools and the booth seats down. Ty pulls on his ankles to bring his feet up more, as if they could be in her way. “That guy _looks_ haunted.”

“Do you have a crush on him?” Ty asks, seemingly out of nowhere, but he remembers Tandy as recently as last week staring at Captain Rogers in his little booth, sipping his coffee order that Tandy has memorized, and biting down on her bottom lip. Blond haired, blue eyed Captain Rogers. The guy who always gets the bigger coffee mug.

Tandy smiles, but she doesn’t give him a full laugh, and that’s how he knows the answer is yes. She wipes down the back of the stool in front of him. “He’s like a million years old,” she says, which is not the truth and not an answer: Tandy Bowen’s favorite way to deal with uncomfortable questions.

“You know what else is a million years old?” He decides to change the subject for her, wishing he hadn’t even mentioned Captain Rogers. He doesn’t understand why he thought he would be able to handle Tandy’s confirmation without souring his mood. He’s always asking questions he doesn’t want answered. Maybe it’s a good thing Tandy deflects them like she does— at least in this one very rare instance, Ty finds it benefits him.

Tandy wipes down the last seat at the end of the counter and then throws the cloth at him. Even though she’s laughing, her aim is good, but he still catches the towel without it hitting him in the face. 

“We’re going to the beach,” she informs him. “You don’t think I’m closing up four--” she pauses to check the clock on the wall and then amends “--ish hours early just for fun, do you? I’m doing this for you, dork.”

Ty throws the towel in the laundry bin behind him, successfully making the shot, then punctuates every word in his next sentence with a clap of his hands. “It’s. A. Real. Dinosaur. How can you not even want to see it?”

“I want to see it,” she explains, walking to the switches and shutting off the lights. “Obviously, I want to see it, but it isn’t _there_ right now. I’ve seen the beach. I’m not going to go sit there for hours without a guaranteed dino sighting.”

“You just don’t like crowds.” Ty turns himself around and hops off the top of the counter, then holds the back door to the kitchen open for her. His eyes haven’t quite adjusted to the gloom yet, but Tandy knows the way and always holds his hand to lead him when it’s closing time. He swears that sometimes, in the dark, he can see her eyes reflecting like there are mirrors behind them, able to pick out the smallest amount of light to move by.

“I don’t like wasting time.” She opens the back door and punches in the six digit code that Ty also has memorized by this point. “But so long as I’m staring at an empty beach with you, it’s not a waste.” 

He laughs, feels his face flush, and rolls his eyes upward because he never knows what to do when she does that. She flirts as easy as Billy always did, as easy as some people shake hands— people who have that kind of charm love to show it off. Ty isn’t sure when she started saying things like that to him, and he doesn’t want to ask her to stop. He just wants to ask her if she means it. 

He can’t, though, because Tandy Bowen doesn’t have tough conversations, and trying to pin down what they are to each other -- if and how they’re changing as time moves forward and ushers them into adulthood -- is the definition of a tough conversation. They aren’t going to be kids anymore. They aren’t even really kids now. 

It was so much simpler when they were.

“Why now and not in four hours when you actually close?” Ty asks, not quite understanding why she would refuse to go all day only to cut short The Diner’s opening hours and hurry to the beach right after sunset.

“Rogers said it came after or around sunset. Maybe it’s a creature of habit,” she says. She could just as easily refuse to go until later, but she doesn’t want him to miss it.

He’s going to leave her in less than six months. He doesn’t want to leave her at all.

Her hand slips out of his once they step outside into the moonlight and Tandy locks the back door, giving it a few good rattles just to check. Ty flexes his hand a few times, trying to shake off the feel of her fingers locked against his, and then shoves it in his pocket.

“You don’t have to come,” He says, walking backwards in the direction of the lighthouse. “I can just walk you home and go by myself.” They have Rumlow’s nightly routine memorized by now— he usually comes in half an hour before closing, throws his badge around and finds unconvincing ways to touch Tandy on her shoulders or her lower back. Closing so early means that they both get to miss his evening visit entirely, but he could still catch them on the walk to the beach.

“Maybe I want to walk _you_ home,” she says. “Ever think of that?” 

For a person with such tiny legs, she moves very quickly towards him, getting only one step ahead before he turns around and they fall into walking together. They’re both in a hurry— Rumlow’s cruiser can’t drive on the beach so they’ve marked it as a safe zone, but the walk from The Diner to the shore is a no man’s land that neither of them wants to be caught in.

As they walk in step, Ty trying to keep his pace well under anything that could be considered _fleeing suspiciously_ , a long silence stretches between them. Ty can’t tell if she’s comfortable with it or really good at faking that. It’s not comfortable for him; it makes every one of his nerves buzz with a low level of anxiety. Each of his vertebrae, a different drawer in the catalog, rattles one by one as if to open and spill into the silence. Some silences invite that sort of thing.

“You think McDunn will be a huge tourist spot now?” He asks, looking up and finding full moonlight brightening the sky, making the stars around it twinkle brighter. “Maybe everything is going to change.” It’s strange that he can imagine a dinosaur in McDunn easier than he can reporters and tourists, or people finally paying attention to the sinkhole of tragedy that is McDunn. Maybe, even, people actually _doing_ something about it.

“Or not,” Tandy counters. “Maybe this is a blip. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.” He’s afraid, suddenly, that she knows about NYU. She knows that they’re on borrowed time. She knows he’s got a chance to get out. What if she hates him for leaving?

He doesn’t want to push. He has to push. “This feels big, Tandy.” He says it too softly, so he tries to make his voice louder and firmer, and only ends up almost shouting at her instead. “I’m gonna hire a PI from New York to come down.” 

It feels like a confession although it’s not like he owes it to her to begin with. But they both know it’s something he purposefully kept from her. He’s so unsure of her response, afraid of it, that he didn’t want to tell her. He still can’t tell if that was the right decision or not. They used to tell each other everything, but at some point that changed, and Ty missed it happening.

Tandy looks at him, not confused but certainly curious and a little amused. “To investigate the dinosaur?” she asks, as the streets and sidewalks give way to the rocks and sand of the shore. 

To Ty, it feels like crossing into another world, a veil only they can pass through to reach the serene quiet of the beach. The terrain gives him a sense of safety and he pulls his hands out of his pockets. It feels like they’re the only two people in the world— Ty likes it that way. Not that he wouldn’t miss a lot of people if they really _were_ suddenly the last ones on Earth, but he wouldn’t hate it if it were Tandy he was left with, the way he would if it were almost anyone else.

“No.” Ty shrugs. He doesn’t feel as nervous as all the other times he’s tried to tell her. Maybe he just needed the safety of the beach. He hasn’t said this part out loud before; Tandy’s always the first one to hear his secrets, but he doesn’t know how to tell her things anymore— he doesn’t know how she’ll take it. “For Billy.”

She stops walking. Not for long— her stride is matched with his again in less than a second -- but it’s notable that she _did_ stop. It’s the only sign that what he’s said had an impact on her. “Where’d you find this PI?”

“Online. Alias Investigations.” He shrugs, hands slipping back into his pockets and bees swarming in his chest. “I’ve been saving up. She’s supposed to be really good. She’s solved a lot of missing person cases.”

“Sounds like you’ve been working on this for a while,” she mutters, loud enough that he’s not sure why she bothered muttering at all. She turns her head to see him again and then softens— everything from her eyes to her grip on her messenger bag.

“I was thinking,” He better just say it, get it all out, it’ll be good for her. She needs closure in a different way than him, but he can still get it for her. “About having her look for your dad too.”

It gets worse then, all that tension flooding into her body like just the mention of him scares her into stillness. He can fix this. “If he’s confirmed dead then your mom can finally get that life insurance money, she can get back on her feet.” He leaves out how much this would help Tandy— how things could be better for her if she had her mom looking out for her instead the other way round.

“Ty,” she sounds like she’s disappointed. Why? Is she disappointed in him? That’s not fair. She doesn’t have any right to that. “What do you think a PI is going to do that the cops and everyone in this town can’t?” Her tone is bitter and angry. She’s hurt and he doesn’t understand how he hurt her. He’s trying to help— he’s trying to make things easier on her. He pulls away from her, creating feet where there was once only inches between them. 

“I don’t know. But something. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but so far everyone in this town, especially Rumlow”-- Ty emphasizes this with a look at Tandy, imagining that his eyes look like the pretty gemstone she described, only equally hard and unyielding on this point -- “is doing nothing. I want someone to do something. If it’s gotta be me, then so be it.” Not all of his pain stems from Billy, but he’s the most sensitive pressure point and Tandy knows it, which is why her dismissal of his plans hurts so much.

“Like what?” she snaps at him, like it’s her pressure point, like there’s an open wound she hid from him and now he’s poured salt in it. “What are you going to do, Ty? What’s this PI going to do? People leave. That’s what they do.” She doesn’t direct it at him, she doesn’t say, explicitly, even you will, Ty, but the way she spits it out makes it clear she feels it. “Money didn’t fix my mom’s life when my dad was around, it’s not gonna do shit for her now. I don’t want that; I don’t want to see him or know what happened. I don’t care what happened to him.” 

She stops walking and he keeps going a few steps. Not because he doesn’t want to get too far ahead of her— although he sort of does, with the way she’s acting— but because he’s tired. It’s too much to walk down the beach and have this conversation at the same time. He doesn’t turn around; he stands with his back to her and his eyes locked on the horizon. 

“Maybe he’s not dead,” Ty says into the distance, into the sea, and he’s not sure if she still heard it. “Maybe he’s just lost and he wants to come back.” 

A body wouldn’t be so bad anyway— a body would be an answer. He has so few pieces of Billy left in his life, only so many memories that distort over time. A body would give him one more thing.

“If he wanted to come back, he would-” 

He can’t take this. He wants her to understand, she almost always understands, but here is where the disconnect lies. Here is where he has to draw the line with her. He has to stand across from her and feel the miles of things that still separate them. Despite all the other ways in which they’re connected, there is a divide between them that can’t be breached, and his heart hurts to know it.

He turns around. “I get it!” He shouts, although not loud enough to echo around them, just loud enough that she can hear him, can tell he’s angry over the wind. “Not everyone’s as happy about it as you are.”

She freezes, so still that for a moment he worries he stopped time somehow. There’s so much distance between them— he didn’t notice until he’s looking at all the space that keeps them from each other. He feels vulnerable and angry and he wishes someone would make it feel just a little less so. He doesn’t want to be alone. 

She must hate that distance too, because she takes the first steps, all of the steps, towards him. 

“I’m not happy,” she says, reaching up to touch him but then not doing so, just letting her hand hover over his chest before she drops it, heavy at her side. She always knows when he doesn’t want to be touched, knows when to keep her hand on offer and give him space. “I’m not happy that you’re unhappy, Ty.” She says it like a promise, and Ty can’t always tell when she’s lying but he recognizes her absolute truths. There’s something in her voice that makes him wonder if she’s going to cry. He hasn’t seen her cry, really cry, since they were children. It’s not that he wants to see it, just that he worries about her only crying alone or, worse, never crying at all.

He crosses his arms— he doesn’t want to hug her or comfort her, whether she cries or not. He always comforts her and he’s not going to this time. It’s not fair. 

He’s the one crying now, tears warm as they fall from his eyes and then chilled on his cheeks by the cold sea breeze. He doesn’t remember seeing Billy cry but he could hear it, sometimes, at night. Billy kept his tears private— only let them slip out when he thought he was alone in the dark.

“Can I hold your hand?” Tandy asks. She offers hers to him, palm up, and all he can think about is how lost he feels and how holding her hand would fix all of that for him. He doesn’t want to hug her— but holding her hand will make him feel better.

He sets his palm down on hers. She’s the one who laces their fingers together and then starts to pull him along towards the beach. He thinks that’s the end of it for now, that he’ll have to bring this up again in a few weeks, fearing the whole time that it’ll turn out uglier than this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, stumbling over the first part like she’s never walked this path before, but she tries again, louder and clearer so he knows she means it. “It’s different for you— about Billy. I know. I forget sometimes that it’s not like my dad.” She looks into his eyes and he’s amazed at how easily they walk together, without tripping, when their eyes are on each other and not the world around them. “Billy was-is a really good guy. He deserves to come back.” She swallows. “You deserve to have him back.”

She adds that she’s sorry, just one more time, and his body eases. He smiles and nudges her, bumping his shoulder against hers and says, “Tandy Bowen apologizing,”. She responds with a loud guffaw, joking and easy and nudges him back. “Maybe this is the end times.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she warns him. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Ty chuckles, “You realize a literal dinosaur rose from the sea first, right? Like, that kind of says a lot about you.”

“Nah,” Tandy says, waving him off with her free hand. “I heard that was a hoax.” She steps like she’s trying to walk on a balance beam, her feet going into ballet poses as she tries to walk like she’s dancing. Ty’s hand holds her steady, still locked into his fingers, her palm cold where his is warm. Ty watches her balance as best she can. She has no fear of falling over with Ty anchoring her, even when he’s on unsteady sand himself.

“I can pay for half,” she says, and then when he doesn’t quite catch on she explains. “For the PI. I’ve got some saved up.” 

She keeps walking even when he stops at a spot on the beach that he likes, somewhere perfect to watch the sunset and find a dinosaur. She pulls at his hand and then sinks back towards him when she realizes this is where he wants to stay. She loves to run away, but she never leaves him if he asks her to stay.

“You mean that?” 

She nods, but he knew the answer already— it was another of her absolute truths. 

“I have to go to New York and meet her in person first. It’s called a consult.” He shifts the sand underneath his shoes and looks at the pattern the bottom of his sole leaves. There’s something about the words New York that makes her squeeze his hand— a pain he can’t find the source of.

“You don’t have to go alone,” she says. “You don’t have to go anywhere without me, if you don’t want to.”

His body eases and he steps close to her. He gives her a side hug, one armed and tight, and hopes it says what he feels. She relaxes against him and it’s comforting to know she was tense too. He slides out of the embrace after the sky starts to turn indigo.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw a sunset,” Tandy says, lowering down to a sitting position and tucking her legs underneath her. Ty stays standing for just a moment longer, waiting for her to get settled, making sure she still wants his hand in hers before he crosses his legs and plops down next to her. “Your mom is gonna be mad I got sand all over your jeans.”

“Thanks for closing early,” Ty says. He wants to lie back and stare up at the sky, watch the colors bleed dark rather than squinting past the spot where the sun has already been tucked away. He should text his parents to let them know when he’ll be home.

“Do you think we’ll see it?” she asks, running her thumb over the back of his palm.

“Maybe it only comes out at night,” Ty suggests. There’s a slight breeze from the shore, blowing in the right direction to keep her hair out of her face.

He wishes she’d kiss him. It would be the perfect time.

“Hey!” someone shouts from up the beach. 

Tandy turns right away to find the source of the noise but Ty is still blinking at her, trying to sort out why he didn’t kiss her first before he registers that they’ve been interrupted, at which point he lets go of her hand.

Two people are walking across the sand towards them, a tiny woman with long, straight, black hair tied up in a ponytail and a tall man with a dark beard hoisting a camera over his shoulder as they approach. Ty can tell they’re reporters of some kind; if the industrial sized camera hadn’t given it away, or the sound equipment strapped onto every part of the woman’s body, it would be the first thing the man says to them after _hey_ : “You guys from around here? You want an interview?”

Tandy stands and positions herself between Ty and the two strangers, like all five feet and one hundred-thirty pounds of her is ready to throw down with these two on Ty’s behalf. Ty laughs, because maybe she really could take them. He leans back and rests on his elbows, still behind the protective barrier that is Tandy but able to see the two reporters now that they’re only a few feet away.

“Who’s asking?” Tandy crosses her arms and waits, like these two really need to identify themselves or they’ll be kicked off the beach.

“I’m Clint,” the man says, pointing to himself and then the young woman, maybe only a few years older than Ty and Tandy. “This is Kate. We’re investigating-” he pauses, then starts up again. “We’re doing a story on the town. You two want to be interviewed?”

“Is it about the Beast?” Ty asks. He is suddenly keenly aware of a rock in his shoe, and he’s not sure there’s a discreet way to wiggle it out.

“There is no beast,” Kate says, and then looks between Ty and Clint as if she’s unsure. “Right? The eye witness said there wasn’t one.”

“Who’s your ‘eye witness’?” Tandy scoffs— she can be really rude to strangers. Ty can count the people Tandy trusts on one hand. “Because _we_ have it on good authority this thing is real.”

“That’s what you’re out here waiting for?” Clint asks, lifting and shifting the camera from one shoulder to the other. “Who’s your source?”

“Captain Rogers,” Ty answers, only realizing when Tandy turns to shush him that maybe Steve didn’t want his name given out to reporters.

“We interviewed him. He said it was a hoax.” Clint seems confused, but Kate looks like she’s caught on already and is amused, if not also a little put out.

“What paper are you from, anyway?” Tandy asks, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to her right leg. She’s tired from standing all day, and Ty wishes she’d just sit down and give up on this intimidation trick.

“We work for Trish Talk dot com, and we run a segment called-” Clint begins but then Ty shoots up and points at him, almost accusingly.

“Rare Bird: Only Two Left,” Ty says, giddy, because he’s meeting celebrities. E-list youtube celebrities, but still, he’s at least _heard_ of their segment, even if he hasn’t watched more than a handful of their videos. Tandy raises her eyebrows and Ty shrugs. “It’s like a fun cryptid web series.” He points to the two journalists and says, “You two weren’t in the episodes I saw, though.”

“Sam is joining us in a little bit. He’s doing his sunset prayers at the house up the road,” Clint explains, pointing in the direction of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

“So then you talked to our eye witness already,” Tandy says. She crosses her arms over her chest, though Ty isn’t sure if it’s a show of dominance or if she’s just cold from the wind blowing in off the water. “Rogers told us the whole thing this morning. You don’t need to interview us about it. We haven’t seen it yet.”

“Yet?” Kate asks, taking a step towards her and holding her little recording device up to Tandy’s face. “So you really think there’s a dinosaur?”

“This again?” Ty sighs. “There’s video and everything. Never knew there were so many skeptics in the world.”

“Really?” Tandy asks, flashing an amused smile down to him. “You’ve never heard of flat earthers or anti-vaxxers?”

Ty snaps his fingers and points at her. “That’s a good point— I forgot about the science-denying skeptics.”

“Rogers told us it was a hoax,” Kate explains, looking at Clint for some kind of sign and getting a shrug in return. “He said the whole thing was made up. He didn’t see a dinosaur.”

“We were coming to ask you about the disappearances,” Clint adds.

Ty wishes he hadn’t. His fists clench at the same time as Tandy’s, and he’s up in seconds to stand next to her, his hand hanging lazy and close at his side, near hers, if she needs to grab it— or if he does.

“We don’t want to talk about that,” Ty says firmly, but his hand is twitching at his side and doesn’t still until Tandy’s pinky finger links with his.

“That’s not just some sideshow story,” Tandy adds. She sounds brave, but she’s always been good at lying about that. “Wouldn’t that be for _real_ journalists anyway?” Her pinky squeezes Ty’s, and he answers by linking their ring fingers. Two hands slowly weaving in to each other, becoming inseparable.

“Forget about that,” Clint says urgently. “You’re saying the dinosaur _is_ real? That Rogers was, what? Lying to us earlier?”

“He did say he wasn’t going to tell anyone else,” Ty recalls. “Especially reporters. Guess we really are the only ones who he ended up telling the story to.” Ty finds it a little impressive that Captain Rogers stuck to his guns on such a thing. He must really like being alone, or really hate attention.

“You got any cash?” Tandy asks and it’s sudden but it’s also such a _Tandy_ thing to say that it makes him laugh. “We’ll tell you what he told us.”

Clint doesn’t go for it. He’s shaking his head, eyes glaring at something in the distance— most likely the evasive Captain Rogers— while Kate starts to rummage around in her bag and pockets for cash.

Clint taps her on the shoulder and jerks his thumb behind them. “Text Sam. Tell him to meet us at the lighthouse.”

“But what about the disappearances?” Kate asks, taking one last long look at Ty and Tandy— like maybe they’ll come around on their McDisappearance story stance if they have enough cash to offer.

“Just,” Clint sighs and looks like he’s truly struggling with something. “Both. We can do two things.”

“I don’t think Sam wants to split focus— ” Kate starts, and Clint shakes his head again.

“We’ll figure it out. We have to go _now_ , though. Come on.” Clint starts walking towards the lighthouse and Kate mouths a quick ‘thank you’ to Ty before following after him.

Ty and Tandy stand like that for a while, until he doesn’t feel like craning his neck anymore to watch Kate and Clint walking off. It’s so quiet, and the only things Ty can really focus on are the places where their fingers aren’t locked— how the space feels so empty and unnatural to him.

“I thought there’d be more people here,” Tandy says, jolting Ty out of his little spell. He looks around them at the empty beach, where even Clint and Kate are specks in the distance already.

“I guess they gave up. Or went searching around elsewhere,” Ty proposes. “I’ll bet Alex’s folks have unplugged the landline. His yard is probably swarming with people.”

“Good,” she says, linking their hands together completely and filling in those warm spaces for him before she sits down and tugs him with her. “I like it like this. Like we’re the only two people in the world.”

He smiles at her, even though her eyes are dead ahead on the horizon and she probably doesn’t see it. He looks out over the water, and runs his thumb over the back of her hand as a sign that he agrees.

*

James doesn’t really remember the walk back to Stacey’s house after they leave Steve. His dad is in a sour mood, though, so he has to assume he did _something_ that his father found distasteful. Maybe he’ll be tired, when they get back to Stacey’s, enough to go to bed weirdly early, and James can get out into town again.

He wants to find Captain Rogers. He feels like he owes the captain an apology, or at least a drink. Maybe a dance. Bucky isn’t picky— he’s only shocked a guy who looks like _that_ is out in the middle of nowhere like this.

Dad fiddles with the keys in the lock of Stacey’s door and James looks up at the brickwork and wonders why they’ve locked the front door when almost everyone is home. Dad lets out a low curse at the lock and James steps up beside him. He takes hold of the door, lifts just the right amount to the left and twists the key perfectly to bring the door open. The lock always sticks in early March when the weather is changing so frequently, the temperature a little warmer every day. Bucky swears that seasonal changes are hell on his sinuses someone always catching colds--

James blinks. He’s standing in the foyer, Stacey waving her hand in front of his face, a tiny flashlight in her mouth as she gazes into his eyes. James winces away from the light and Stacey’s mouth drops open in relief, the flashlight falling. It catches on a chain around her neck--she must drop it all the time.

“He’s back,” Stacey cheers. It happened again--the losing time. Was it like this before they came to McDunn? That name keeps coming back to him: Bucky. Like it’s tied around a memory he could unlock, if he could just tug on the rope that binds it.

What’s more curious is how he knows the way to wiggle Stacey’s new lock or what winters in McDunn are like. He hates the cold, but he loves the way snow glitters and how the ocean looks against a winter sky. “That’s been happening a lot lately,” their father says from the mud room, kicking his shoes off and hanging up his cane. “We need him fixed up.”

“I told you he’s not ready,” Stacey snaps at him, then quickly covers her mouth and quiets, like a mouse caught shouting at the cat. 

Alexander glares at her, and James hasn’t realized until now how unlike each other the three of them are. How would anyone know they’re related, just from looking at them? 

“Mister Fennhoff,” Stacey says, correcting herself, still speaking from her hiding spot behind her own hand, “said that he wasn’t ready.” 

Where is their mother? Bucky remembers her clearly, but she’s younger in his mind, nowhere near his father’s age and too warm and happy in his memory to have spent much time with him.

“Johann’s pussyfooting is not an option for us.” Alexander looks at him, and Bucky wants to ask him a question but he’s not sure which one. 

Winnifred smells like cinnamon and juniper and the dust around this house. He looks up the staircase for her, to see if she’s coming down to see him.

The old man picks his cane back up and taps the head of it against the wall, rhythm calming and familiar. No more questions. His father’s first name feels wrong in his mouth. 

“Try to stay with us, James,” his dad requests, gentle but edging further away from his patient tone every moment. It’s like a topographic stone that he doesn’t remember dropping into the ocean. If he pulls at the rope, the stone will come up.

“I’m here,” James confirms. He smiles and looks at Stace, throwing his arms around her and hugging her tight by the shoulders. “Why? You miss me?” 

She goes stiff in his arms at first, lets out a nervous laugh, and then pats him hard on the back. James knows how Rogers must have felt in The Diner when he embraced him and called him Bucky. He lets go of her a lot faster than the Captain let James go.

“James, the girls are in the backyard,” Stacey informs him, gesturing behind her, through the kitchen towards the sliding glass doors out the back. He sees Molly first, sitting on the steps in her pink knitted cap, staring down at her phone. He doesn’t see Gert, so he walks through the kitchen and out to the backyard.

He catches sight of her once he’s outside. She’s standing where the string and pegs have been placed to mark the fence Stacey and Dale plan to build there, unable to understand why two houses on parallel streets would want to share a backyard anyway. Apparently, Gert has reason enough--she’s talking animatedly to the neighbor boy. James sits down next to Molly and leans back on his elbows, stretching his legs out.

“She’s been over there for like twenty minutes,” Molly informs him. “She’s either yelling at him or flirting with him.”

“A person can do both,” James replies. “What’s happening on your phone?”

“Nothing,” Molly scoffs, shoving the little device into her pocket. “There’s no signal here. This town must live in the stone age. Only one cell phone tower.”

“Believe it or not, they didn’t even have one cell tower in the stone age. Can you imagine?”

“Oh yeah? Did your _dad_ tell you that? While he was reminiscing about his youth, I’ll bet.” Bucky laughs when Molly looks behind them to check and make sure his dad isn’t standing there glaring at her. “See anything interesting in town?”

He tips his head left to right a few times before landing on an answer, “I saw some _one_ interesting, does that count?”

“That’s more interesting people than I’ve seen all day, so I guess I can give you that.” She looks behind them again, peering into the kitchen and doing at least a passable job of looking like she _isn’t_ playing lookout for her sister. She pulls her head back up and sighs heavily at him, a child burdened with boredom and no consistent wi-fi. “Dale and Stacey have been fighting since you left.”

“What about?” He asks without enthusiasm; he’s not _not_ curious about his sister’s marital troubles— it’s just that he cares way more about getting information on Steve Rogers. James should go out on the town again tonight, or at least try to find Rogers in McDunn somewhere. Maybe ask him a little more about his Bucky. The name felt familiar to hear but less so to say. He tries to imagine introducing himself to people as _Bucky_. It doesn’t seem like a very cool opener. _Bucky_ sounds like a wonder boy sidekick type— surely no adult man would go by it.

“When was the last time you washed your hair?” Molly asks, tugging on one of his long strands. He doesn’t bat her hand away, instead just moves his head into her tug so she can keep hold of it. He isn’t sure why she wants to play with his hair but it doesn’t really matter to him.

“They were fighting about when I last washed my hair?” She doesn’t laugh at the joke, and he feels like she was right not too. It was more lazy than anything. He feels very lazy suddenly, like the labor of the day has taken more out of him than it should have. “I don’t remember,” he answers, finally, and he feels like he really should get his hair wet at least. Now it feels long and dirty on his head--something that must be fixed as soon as possible.

Because he gave her an answer, she pays him back in kind. “They keep whispering. Your name, Gert’s name, Johann, your dad’s first name.” She drops his hair and shifts to tuck her legs under herself. “She never calls him ‘dad’ or anything when she’s fighting alone with Dale.”

“What’s she call him?” Bucky goes for the hair tie on his wrist but doesn’t find it. He stares at his gloved hand and then blinks. Why did he think there’d be a hair tie there? Why isn’t there? With his hair this long, it feels like he should have one.

“Usually ‘Pierce’ or ‘that madman’, depending on which argument they’re having.” She holds up two fingers. “She and Dale have two arguments: one is about you and the madman, and the other is about Gert and me.”

“Where does Johann come into it?” James asks. If he tugs on the rope, pulls the stone up from the depths he’ll know how many fathoms deep his name is buried. Maybe he’ll see it carved into the stone.

Molly keeps her two fingers up. “He crops up in both.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t hear what they were fighting about?” He wonders if she has a hair tie--her hair has gotten pretty long. She’s growing her curls out--she doesn’t let Gert braid them into pigtails for her anymore.

“I caught some things. Like, when they’re saying my and Gert’s names, Stacey is always yell-whispering at Dale.”

“That’s when she calls Dad a madman?”

She nods. “Bingo. When they talk about you she calls him ‘Pierce’ and Dale is the one whisper-yelling.”

“All very mysterious,” Bucky says, tone light and teasing. The poor girl has nothing to do all day except for eavesdropping on her parent’s petty arguments, and nothing to do in the evening but play with his hair and watch Gert talk to the boy next door.

He can’t remember the last time he cut his hair. He remembers asking Becca to do it--remembers her hands in his hair, gentle and precise. He more than remembers: he _knows_ it in his blood and his bones.

The only problem is he doesn’t know who Becca is, can’t bring a face to his mind. In his memory, she’s standing behind him; he only can recall the sensation of her hands in his hair and the sound of scissors snipping hairs.

“Molly, do we know a Rebecca?” he asks, looking at her curiously, trying to place the name. Maybe she’s his hair stylist, someone he sees regularly for his appointments, but he doesn’t know why his memory shows him sitting in a chair, in this backyard, staring down at these blades of grass as his own brown curls land and disturb the green.

“I don’t think so?” she answers, cocking her head to the side, eyes looking upward as she really tries to catalog all the women they know in her brain and then what their first names are.

“Maybe she goes by Becky or Becca or,” he pauses, his tongue forming a name but also holding it inside him. He almost doesn’t want to say it--he’s not sure what kind of curse it could bring. But it’s just a name, he reminds himself; there is no power in a name. “Or Bex,” he finishes. He feels like he’s uncovering something, a cartouche protecting a sacred name that is maybe his own but feels like someone else’s.

Molly shakes her head. “No one I know, I don’t think. But that’s weird too, right? Isn’t Rebecca a really common name?”

Dale pulls the sliding door open and looks between James and Molly before he zeroes in on Gert, calling to her across the yard, “Gert, sweetie, come inside, please! It’s getting dark!”

Molly winces in shame at allowing herself to become distracted and not being a proper lookout. Gert doesn’t seem upset with her— maybe being lookout wasn’t so much important to Gert but to Molly as something to do.

“I’m meeting the neighbors,” Gert calls back, not even turning around to talk to Dale. James has to laugh--something about teenagers and attitude and how cliche it feels that Gert would ignore her father just to talk to a boy.

James recognizes the boy, now that he bothers to take in what he looks like; it’s one of the kids from the diner--he seemed to be pretty fond of Captain Rogers. Maybe James can get the man’s address from the kid. He could probably offer it in exchange for Gert’s number (with her permission, of course), so their conversation could be continued inside where Dale seems desperate to get her.

Then again, maybe the problem is the boy and not so much the outside. “We’re going to eat dinner,” Dale yells out, and then, as if it’s supposed to tantalize her, “Roasted cauliflower and chickpea tacos.”

It holds no appeal to Gert. James cranes his head all the way back to look at Dale upside down. There’s no action in the kitchen-- they clearly haven’t even started making dinner. “Let her alone, Dale,” James says. “She’s been cooped up all day.”

“Alexander wants her inside.” Dale looks down at Molly, “And the two of you as well.”

“Why do _I_ have to go inside? I wasn’t doing anything,” Molly says, rightfully offended and displeased to be forced to go inside where she’ll be slightly more bored than out here.

“And I’m an adult,” James adds in his own defense. “My dad can’t give me a curfew anymore.”

Dale lets out this laugh that feels like he doesn’t find what James said funny, exactly, but he’s desperate for James to think he does. It’s this loud, obnoxious, donkey guffaw, and it goes on for at least a minute.

James has to shake his head at Dale; the poor guy must always be on eggshells around his father-in-law now. James can’t say he blames him; his dad _clearly_ hates Dale, or at least finds him useless, which to his father is more or less the same thing. If anyone disliked him as much as Alexander obviously dislikes Dale, James would be laughing nervously at everything too. Dale acts like he’s an unequipped hostage negotiator everytime Pierce gives him an order.

It’s really funny to James, but he holds in the laugh. He controls himself for the sake of poor Dale, who probably wouldn’t recover from the embarrassment.

“I thought we were going to order a pizza, anyway,” Molly says, still not standing up to go inside. “That’s what you do at the end of a moving day. It’s traditional.”

“I don’t even know if there _is_ a pizza place in this town,” James tells her. “I only saw one restaurant and I was out with dad all...” He pauses; he can’t say _all day_ , that doesn’t feel right. He was doing something— what was it? He’s not sure. That happened earlier too, this morning he thinks but it’s hard to remember the afternoon or this morning. “I walked most of the town and I didn’t spot anywhere other than The Diner,” he says instead, side-stepping his own time lapse--he really should start writing these down to keep track of them.

“I could go for some diner food, actually,” Molly agrees, such a team player, but she’s probably desperate enough to eat anywhere that isn’t this house. James feels almost the opposite; it’s easier to be in their backyard than anywhere else he’s been in town. 

Dale shakes his head. “We aren’t going out. It’s very important to--to your grandpa,” he says, tripping over the word so hard James is worried he broke his neck, “that we all stay inside.” He looks out to his eldest daughter again. “Gert, please come inside.”

“Give her ten minutes,” James pleads, he’s not sure why but Dale has been particularly hard to deal with the past day or so. When the man still doesn’t retreat inside, Bucky sits up again and says, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Dale sways between the outside of the sliding glass doors and the inside of the kitchen before he decides that it’s okay so long as James is watching them. Not that James knows what he would do if anything happened, nor does he know what might happen that would require to him to _do_ anything. The sliding glass door closes with Dale on the inside and he disappears into the house.

James realizes he knows exactly which room Dale is headed into by the exit he takes out of the kitchen. He doesn’t remember getting a tour, or when he was in this house before, but he feels like they’ve always lived there, even if he can’t pull up any memories to confirm it.

He feels a pressure behind his left eye, not painful but certainly uncomfortable, and he worries his nose is going to start bleeding again if he pushes this thought too hard, so he backs off from it. He doesn’t want to scare Molly, even if it is just a nosebleed, and he doesn’t want to black out on her either.

“I need to cut my hair,” James sighs, running his fingers through it and feeling them catch on the tangles. More accurately, he needs a shower, and maybe some actual food as well. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate.

“Want me to do it?” Molly offers. She must really be bored, because she sounds excited by the idea.

James cocks his head to the side. “You know how to cut hair?”

Molly shrugs. “No. But I want to try.”

James smiles; that’s good enough for him. “Go get the shears, or whatever’s been unpacked already,” he instructs her, and she jumps to rush into the house. 

She takes the same exit out of the kitchen as Dale, and then a few seconds later passes through the kitchen again and out the side door instead. James wonders if she’s going to be able to find anything at all.

She proves herself pretty resourceful, coming back outside with a towel in one hand and Dale’s beard shears in the other. “On the porch?” she asks.

James stands up and passes by her into the house just long enough to grab one of the kitchen chairs from the table and bring it outside. He walks it onto the grass but takes it a few feet further, somewhere closer to Gert and her new boy next door, just enough to overhear the conversation if Molly and he were to be curious enough to eavesdrop.

He sits down in the chair, and Molly is only a few steps behind him, throwing the towel over him in a grand gesture, like she’s a magician readying a trick: she’s going to make all of his hair disappear.

Gert lowers her voice, smart enough to catch on to their ploy. The neighbor boy doesn’t notice nearly as quickly-- probably he doesn’t notice anything at all until Gert makes a motion with her hand that commands he bring the volume down.

Molly ties the towel around James’s neck and over his shoulders. He can feel her hands hovering over him and above his head until she huffs out a sound of frustration and says, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

She rushes back inside and James has nothing to do but sit in the yard and wait for her to get whatever other supplies she found necessary. It leaves him alone with his eldest niece and her loverboy, who still has not _quite_ grasped the concept of speaking lower. Not that James can glean much from hearing only his half of the conversation, but there’s at least enough information to pick up on basic courtship.

James isn’t sure Gert likes boys. He’s trying to remember if she’s said anything about it to him before, or if it was ever implied, only that pressure behind his eye comes back and he has to let it go. 

Molly returns with her tools, one that must be a clip of some kind, because he feels her untie the towel and then tighten it again in more of a sturdy hold. She grabbed a comb as well, something she must have had to look for in her boxes of unpacked things i. It pulls through his hair, the teeth scraping through his tangles in one straight line.

“Does Gert even like boys?”he asks; he can’t try to remember it for fear of getting a pulsing migraine, but he can still ask Molly. He feels so lost, unsteady on land legs even though he doesn’t think he’s ever been at sea before. If he could only get his footing, find one thing he remembers with total clarity, everything else could fall into place.

“I think she goes on a case by case basis,” Molly says. 

She’s a little rough with combing his hair at first, but once the initial tangles are out she finds a gentler approach and the feel of it is calming to him. Bucky feels like he’s home--everything is right and familiar. He’s been in this chair before, in this yard, looking over into the neighbor’s open backyard while Becca combs out the tangles of his hair. 

Something is missing, though--something is not quite right, from the way the yard has changed to Bex’s fingers feeling smaller. The boy in the neighbor’s backyard is wrong, too--he’s not the one Bucky is looking for. Where’s the boy--?

The buzz from the razor really hits him when Molly fires it up and, wherever his mind was carrying him off to, it stops to rest now, setting him back into his unfamiliar body in an all too familiar place that James is sure he’s never seen before.

“Are you ready?” Molly asks, bringing up the volume so that he can hear her over the buzz of the beard clippers. It’s loud enough to get the attention of the two teens in the yard. Gert even turns to face them and gives a little amused wave. 

“How short you got it set at?” he asks, not that he’s sure it matters because all he really wants is the long hair gone. He’ll feel cleaner when it’s done, freer, and his mind will settle again. It’s a lot of expectation to put on a haircut, especially one from his fourteen year old niece who has fully admitted she doesn’t know what she’s doing, although so far she’s done a pretty good job at gathering the basics and she’s certainly going to do better than he would cutting his own hair.

“There’s a little chart in the box,” she explains. “I put on the longest attachment. I figure we can go shorter if you don’t like it.”

“Molls,” Gert calls to her, turning her body away from the boy and focusing on what her family is doing in the backyard. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I can figure it out,” Molly hollers back to her--the razor is still buzzing, and she has to speak above the noise. “Are we doing this?” she asks Bucky.

He almost nods, but decides he should try to keep his head still while she works. As far as he can see, the worst case scenario is that he will have to go to a real barbershop tomorrow or later in the week. There’s really no damage Molly can do to him by shaving his hair right now.

It’s when the razor meets his scalp, when he feels the clippers sheer off one long strand of his hair, that he realizes if Steve sees him with his hair messed up James will have to fake his own death and leave the country to avoid the embarrassment. Or maybe just wear a hat--whatever seems easier if and when the time comes.

He closes his eyes; he’s not going to object now, and he isn’t going to interrupt Molly when she’s only just started. He’ll just have to find a nice hat to wear for when he goes into town.

She’s very gentle, if not a little eager. Bucky can hear her giggling every time a new lock of his hair falls. There must be something fun about it, or at least intriguing, because Molly picks up her pace, trying to reveal as much of his short hair as she can. Every productive buzz of the razor makes him feel lighter and grounded at the same time. He feels calm having her fingers in his hair--more than that, he feels safe to be touched. He’s not sure, but he feels like he hasn’t been touched gently in a long time. He tries to think of the last time before this, but his memory only takes him as far back as The Diner this morning. There must have been sometime before that, but he can’t place it. He hopes he doesn’t cut out again and lose time while straining to remember any hug or physical kindness beyond the last twenty-four hours.

The buzzing stops, and Molly steps around to stand in front of him and admire her work. James opens his eyes. Gert has finished with her neighborly chit-chat and has walked over to join them. She’s smiling, which either means it looks fine and she’s proud of Molly or it looks terribly hilarious.

“How’s it look?” James asks, shifting in his seat while he tries to ignore the rogue hairs that have gathered under his towel, itching to be dusted off of his neck and collar.

Gert pulls out her phone as Molly realizes that she forgot to bring a mirror out. She almost runs back inside, taking a before Gert touches her arm to stop her, and holding up her cell phone to James with the front-facing camera on. She doesn’t have any bars either.

It’s not so different from a mirror, other than it doesn’t move with him like a reflection. It’s always just a fraction behind, but something about that calms him. He feels like he can only look at himself when there’s no uncanny double quietly begging him to remember _something_. 

He smiles--the cut doesn’t look too bad actually. As far as Bucky can tell, there’s nothing glaringly wrong or even embarrassing. He runs his hand through it, feeling stopped short when his fingers run out of real hair to caress early. Phantom strands of hair try to wrap around his fingers but they are true ghosts now who move through him--his own body is the ghost haunting him.

“Not bad, Molls,” Gert says sincerely, and bumps her hip against Molly’s--just as good as a pat on the back. Bucky keeps running his hand through his hair until he’s used to the spot where it stops short.

“I think I’m supposed to cut up the sides differently.” Molly looks down at Dale’s razor to ponder over it. “Maybe I go down to a six for the sides?”

“Where’s the line?” Gert asks, stepping into Bucky’s space and examining his hair. She doesn’t touch him, but her hand hovers around the general area of the sides of his hair. “Is that called a fade?”

“I think I’ve lost enough hair for one day,” he says, reaching behind him to unclip the towel. He stands and shakes himself, trying to get all the stray hair off him, although some has already fallen down his shirt and into his clothes. He’ll have to take a shower after this.

Molly, not discouraged in the slightest by James turning down the offer, turns to Gert and holds up the razor. “You want me to do yours too?” she asks--Gert appears to be seriously considering it. “You could get one of those undercuts. That would look so good with your purple hair.”

“That _would_ be pretty cool,” Gert agrees. 

James isn’t sure how her parents would react to such a cut— probably since it keeps her in the house they won’t mind it. His phantom limb aches reminding him that most of him is expendable.

“I’m sure your new boyfriend would love it.” Molly waited an admirable amount of time before teasing her sister--James is a little impressed.

“He’s not my boyfriend. We just met.” Gert rolls her eyes and crosses her arms as if she’s above whatever Molly is implying, but her blush is undeniable. “Chase seems pretty okay, though.” 

Only as James hears the kid’s name does he realize that the only person James has actually been introduced to is Captain Steve Rogers. It’s weird— there were three kids at The Diner this morning, all of them clearly talking to Captain Rogers about something, but none of them introduced themselves.

“What were you talking about forever, anyway?” Molly lets out one focused and hard puff of air on the razor that sends hair particles into the air. She grimaces, disgusted by it. It probably hasn’t been properly cleaned in a while; Bucky _definitely_ needs a shower after this.

“He asked me out,” Gert says, very small, like the other two will just let it pass without question. “He says this town has a lot of weird stuff I should see.”

“You have a date already?” James laughs. “We’ve only been in town for-” 

Something starts and stops again in his head. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been in town. Maybe just a day, not even a full twenty-four hours, but it feels like this day spans his entire life. The town is too worn and familiar to him for him to have just arrived today. 

“Sorry,” he says, instead of finishing the sentence. He takes in a deep, sharp breath to compose himself, but when he looks at the girls they’re concentrating in the same way, as if they’re trying to thread a needle without looking directly at it.

“We got here this morning, right?” Molly asks, because she’s not sure. 

Gert isn’t sure either. “Where were we before?” She looks around them, scanning the backyard for answers. “I can’t remember our old house.”

Molly’s nose starts to bleed. James reacts first, rushing the few inches towards her and putting the towel to her nose. “Lean forward,” James advises her, the way Steve did him, and he can’t figure why he remembers meeting Steve with such clarity but doesn’t know when his last haircut was. “Don’t tilt your head back, that makes it worse.”

“Are you okay?” Gert asks, urgently trying to get around James and into her sister’s space so she can help her.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Molly assures them. “It’s not a big deal. I had one this morning, too.”

Gert freezes and blinks. “When?” she asks. Molly doesn’t answer her past a shrug, one she has to make while tilted forward into James’ used barber towel.

That towel is probably not good for her, very unsanitary, James realizes, but he can’t toss it away until he has something else to keep the blood from getting on her clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Dale has come outside again. Stacey is with him, but only Dale rushes towards the little cluster around Molly. 

Alexander steps up behind Stacey and watches them. He remains at the sliding glass door, his cane in his hand again, just watching them with unhappy interest.

Dale reaches them and he shoves James quite violently away from Molly. James falls back and away, but he still has the towel in his hand. He offers it to Dale, who snatches it from his hand with more aggression than James has ever seen from him before. 

“What did you do?” Dale hisses and James throws his hands up in defense.

“What did I _do_?” he asks, because he can’t wrap his mind around it, why Dale would leap to such a conclusion.

“It’s just a nosebleed, Dad,” Gert interjects, looking between her uncle and her father with just as much confusion as James about Dale’s attitude.

“What did you say to her?” Dale doesn’t wait for his answer, instead turning his attention on Molly, pressing the towel back to her nose and tilting her head back. “Did he say something? Do you read me?” He waves his hand back and forth in front of Molly’s face and she recoils at the odd behavior.

She pushes Dale away from her, clutching the towel to her nose and taking it with her. She puts her arm out all the way to keep him at a distance and she starts backing away. “Can everybody just chill? It’s not a big deal. It’s not even the first one I’ve had today.”

“I’ll get you a clean towel, Molls,” James says, waiting for her to give him a little nod before he heads back towards the house. Stacey has turned away from them; she’s having one of those whisper fights Molly had mentioned, this time with Alexander instead of Dale. James jogs past them and into the kitchen, acting like he can’t hear them, he isn’t listening in or even paying attention to them, while he gets a fresh towel and a warm washcloth for Molly.

“I told you we shouldn’t have left,” Stacey hisses, showing a lot more courage with Pierce, as if he’s violated something sacred enough to warrant her anger. “They aren’t ready. Any of them.”

“We couldn’t stay there. Not until it’s safe.” Even though he isn’t looking at them, James can still feel when his dad’s eyes shift their focus to him through the kitchen window.

“How long will that be? We can’t avoid the public forever. Eventually someone is going to notice all the holes in--” James steps out onto the porch and Stacey falls silent immediately. He walks on, determined to get the linens to Molly and Stacey grabs his arm to stop him. 

“Stay here, James,” she tells him, voice trembling a little, and then takes the towel and washcloth out of his hands. She takes them out to her family and leaves him alone on the porch with their father.

“Must be high altitude or something,” James says, just to say something. He likes to talk--he feels calmer when he talks. His dad glares at him, then softens the look and sighs.

“I liked it better when you couldn’t talk,” Alexander mutters and James doesn’t feel as much pain at that cruel remark as a son ought to. 

“You know what?” James sighs, wanting to be away from all of this, out of this house that makes him feel like a ghost. He wants to feel warm and alive. “I’m going out for dinner. Don’t save me a plate or anything.” He shoves his hands in his pocket and walks up the porch to step back inside.

Alexander’s cane hits him hard in the chest and he doesn’t seem at all apologetic for hurting his son. “No one is going out. We’re staying in this house until further notice.”

James laughs without humor, shoving the cane away, the hot sting of it fading already. “You aren’t serious, are you? You can’t give me a curfew. I’m not a kid anymore.”

Alexander pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and takes in a deep breath, like he’s really trying to calm down. “Fennhoff, I hope you’re burning in hell,” he huffs, before finally opening his eyes and turning to James. “So then how old are you?”

James blinks. It’s such an odd question, but it’s worse when he realizes he can’t answer it. “What?” he finally manages. It’s ridiculous, that’s all, that’s why he can’t answer because it’s such a _ridiculous_ question for his father to ask in the middle of an argument like this.

“Do you know how old you are?” Alexander is clear about it now, speaking at normal volume and stepping too close into James’ space. “What did you do for your last birthday?” James shakes his head--why can’t he answer these things? How does his father know he can’t? “You’re a half cocked gun,” Alexander spits at him, and James feels like running as far away as he can but his feet won’t move. “Fenoff has left the job half done and I can’t be bothered to babysit you.”

James wants to _leave_. He can’t. He’s not allowed. He has to comply.

“So _stay inside_ ,” Alexander orders him, “until we can fix you.” 

Molly’s nose has stopped bleeding and they’ve made their way back to the porch as a collective. James feels tears run down his face but isn’t sure when he started crying.

“We should get a pizza,” Molly suggests. “I have a nose bleed. I think I deserve a pizza.” James quickly wipes his eyes--the girls shouldn’t see him like this.

“I’m actually going to skip out on dinner,” Gert says. “Chase invited me to--”

“No one leaves,” Alexander commands, pinning Stacey and then Dale with a look before he turns and walks inside. Gert waits until he leaves and then clears her throat.

“Anyway, like I was saying. I’ll probably be home--” Gert persists, but Stacey and Dale stop her before she can get too far.

“You can’t leave. You aren’t well,” Stacey says while Dale tells Molly, “We can’t leave for pizza.”

“Are you guys serious?” Gert asks, somewhat incredulous but ready to turn to outrage at any moment. “You must be joking, right? Why do we have to stay inside?”

“It’s very important to,” Stacey stumbles over her words so long that Dale has to jump in and provide her with “grandpa” before she can continue. “Yes, it’s important to your grandfather that we all stay in the house until we’re settled in.”

“Okay, but why?” Molly asks, looking to James for support, or maybe just to see whose side he’s on. He shrugs his shoulders. It is strange, and unfair, but he’s tired and he doesn’t feel like fighting anyone all of a sudden, definitely not his father.

Dale and Stacey do attempt to answer Molly’s question but unfortunately at the exact same time and in two different ways so neither of their responses can really be heard over the other. Gert and Molly roll their eyes in synchronization--they must have practiced that for ages; it’s rather impressive--and then both walk past the adults and into the house.

“He’s pretty mad at Johann, huh?” James says. 

Stacey nods and rubs her temples. “He’s being so unreasonable,” she mutters. “We’re doing our best here without Johann's notes.”

Dale puts his hands on his wife’s shoulders and gives her a shoulder rub that James thinks is probably too hard. Stacey doesn’t seem to mind, though--maybe she married Dale for his iron grip shoulder rubs. Stacey probably carries a lot of tension in her shoulders.

“Who’s Johann again?” James asks. Maybe it’s a strange question, but it doesn’t warrant the deer in headlights looks the two give him as they rush to answer him without actually answering him.

“You never met him” and “He’s an old friend” seem to be the gist of their explanations for why this man seems to be so important--at least important enough that Alexander was openly wishing death and hell upon him--but not someone James knows.

He considers just walking away from them, leaving them stammering to each other while he offers to take Molly out for pizza and drop Gert off at her date just so he can rattle their cages. He decides against it, something like a low whistling sound playing in his mind telling him it’s better if he complies. Compliance will be rewarded. 

“You cut your hair,” Stacey says, suddenly and a little excited. “Oh, it looks so nice.” She sounds like she means it, which feels wrong but is still welcome. It’s nice that someone thinks it looks nice.

“Molly did it, actually,” James says. 

Both Stacey and Dale melt at that, Stacey going so far as to link her arm with James’s and lead him inside. He would have thought that a kind touch from his sister would make him feel settled, less chaotic in his own mind, filled as it is with locked doors he can’t pull open. But walking next to her, that comfort falls short--it doesn’t feel right. She’s a stranger treating him gently--not someone who has known him since they were both born.

“How old are we?” James asks as they re-enter the kitchen, “What did we do on our last birthday?” 

Stacey shakes her head and furrows her brow. “ _Our_ last birthday?” she asks.

James blinks at her. She has holes in her mind, too--that comforts him more than anything else she’s said. “We’re twins,” he reminds her, but even as he says it he realizes it can’t be true--Stacey is older than him by quite a few years. “Or we were. I thought.”

She pats him gently on the arm, more condescending than anything else, and then sits him down at the dining room table. “I think it’s best you have a rest now,” she says, looking at Dale behind him and mouthing something. Bucky isn’t sure what she says, but he hears Dale’s footsteps out of the room.

“We _are_ twins,” Bucky insists, looking up at her and hating how wrong her face is, hating even more that he can’t figure out why. “I have a twin sister. I know it. In my bones, I know that.”

Stacey sighs and gives his shoulder a small squeeze in some show of comfort. He’s getting worked up; he isn’t trying to, but he feels it like a shift in temperature--moving from hot to cold and his mind fogging up from the change, like his mother’s glasses on early mornings in winter.

He doesn’t mean to be aggressive, it’s just that Stacey is so _wrong_ in the kitchen, her hand on his shoulder when she should know he prefers to be wrapped in hugs, engulfed and a little trapped like Captain Rogers had held him.

It’s wrong and it makes him angry and he can’t stop himself from snarling at her, suspicion winning out in the end--there are too many missing pieces to keep him from snapping at her.

“Why isn’t your name Rebecca?” It is the most hateful way he’s ever said anything, and she recoils from him--she has something to fear in that question.

“James?” she asks, tentative and mousy and incorrect because his sister has always been able to yell as good as him, to get just as angry. He stands up and she backs all the way into the counter.

“Is that my name? It doesn’t feel right.” He’s still snapping at her, and the more things take shape, the less familiar she feels and the angrier Bucky gets. He wants to shake her until everything that’s missing falls out of her pockets like coins she’s stolen.

“Just a moment,” she urges him, putting up her hands and he stops advancing. She tries to smile, but it comes off nervous and insincere. Still, he waits for her to take her moment so he can see what she does with it.

She starts clapping. Seemingly randomly, trying to find the right beat, starting and stopping several times, asking Bucky to excuse her while she gets it right.

She doesn’t until Dale walks in--he must survey the scene and deduce more from it than Bucky can, because his first words when he comes up on them are, “It’s five four time, honey. Like in ‘Come On Feel The Illinoise’.”

This locks something in for Stacey--she thanks Dale quickly and then claps in the beat she was searching for. The longer James listens, the more the tension seeps out of his body, until he feels too tired to keep standing. He sinks back down into his chair.

He can’t remember why he was so angry. 

*

There are no clouds tonight— unusual for mid March, Steve thinks. His mother’s almanac predicted a bright and large moon, but Steve counts himself lucky that there’s nothing to obscure the light after it gets dark. He doesn’t have time to run back to his cottage for his flashlight. He had initially been heading towards the lighthouse, but when he saw the flashlights and motions of two of the reporting crew messing around at the door he changed his mind, instead deciding to climb down the edge of the shore to where the rocks meet the waves and the caverns begin. 

Steve wants to avoid the reporters at all costs, which is why he risks climbing down the rocks to the bottom of the shore by nothing more than moonlight, even knowing one slip could end his life. He’s careful where he steps, able to walk steady and watch himself. Wrestling with Alexander Pierce may have been a bad move, but it had at least gotten some of Steve’s repressed jitters out of his system, enough to keep his feet slow and firm where he needs on the salty rocks.

He hasn’t been into the caves in ages. Not since he, Bucky, and Becca were children, riding their bikes to the shore on a lazy afternoon, sometimes packing snacks or bringing books or, in Steve’s case, his charcoals and sketch pad. He doesn’t remember why they stopped going down there— as an adult, Bucky certainly joked a few times about re-visiting the place. Something about christening the place once Steve made an honest man out of him. Bucky would often tug at the hem of Steve’s shirt and say, “We never go to the caves any more,” pouting and truly heartbroken for the place which Steve figured— still figures— could not be half as lovely as any of them remembered it. 

Maybe that’s why they never went back: it would be too tainted for them now. A lovely pristine thing, only preserved in memory. Or maybe Steve should have just proposed without fanfare, instead of putting it off to plan the perfect moment for it.

As Steve makes the final step into the dank mouth of the cave, he keeps his eyes closed and inhales the air deeply. The smell is unchanged, that he can tell for sure. He wants to wait, just one more moment, while he keeps the perfection of the cave in his mind before he has to open his eyes and leave behind his happy childhood memory of the place forever. It hurts so much to learn a sanctuary from youth is just a slimy dark thing with more fish corpses than clean places to sit.

Steve thinks of Bucky just then, the way he looked today coming back to Steve; different and worn, by no means pristine, but still Bucky. He’s changed— undeniably— but seeing him and knowing that Steve has changed too is a comfort. 

When Bucky remembers him— not if, but _when_ — , he might be happy too, that Steve has grown and changed, if not beside him then at least at a matched rate. They have lost time to make up for, but they aren’t strangers, even after all this time. Well, Bucky is, in a way, but he still has a connection to Steve, something that could not exist between mere strangers.

He opens his eyes, and keeping them closed for so long makes seeing in the darkness a lot easier for him. The cave really isn’t that dark, and there aren’t very many fish washed up into it. It looks quite clean, actually, enough that he’s comfortable stepping inside. He wants to call out into it, to fill it with the echo so it will feel like there’s something else in the dark with him. He’s not alone, there’s a lost voice trapped here. 

On the other hand, he’s a little more concerned with what might _actually_ be inside the cave, the physical form of it.

He hadn’t thought of it until the reporter had asked about the caves. They’re large and deep, the perfect place for a huge beast to hide. The cave mouth opens here, but deep into the dark is a web of caverns leading into alcoves and oubliettes. Some of the avenues lead out into the ocean. This one is littered in feathers, some from albatrosses and seagulls, but others too large to be from any creature belonging to the world of the living.

Steve stands just at the edge of where the moonlight ends in the cave. It feels like a partition, like the veil between death and life. He puts his hand over his heart and shudders because of how alone he _doesn’t_ feel staring into the cave. He knows Becca is not at the Barnes house on Halloway. He knows she is _here_ in this cave with him. It’s the same way he knows Bucky _is_ Bucky, and that the door to the underworld is merely a place where shadow meets cold stone that smells salty from the sea. 

“Bex?” Steve asks— too soft, not even enough to pull an echo out of the darkness. It’s a thing that pulls at his heart, a string from an unseen marionette to tell him it’s her name he must call into the dark. Her memory is tied to this string; he has to pull it out for her. He wants to close his eyes again— he mustn’t see her rising in the cave. His heart would break, for her, for Bucky and Winnie, and himself, to see Becca so changed. 

He knows his call wasn’t loud enough. He’ll have to scream again, the way he did before— raw and miserable. To think of Becca makes him feel different than thinking of Bucky or Winnie, or even his own mother. Each death he’s suffered has been unique; grief is an artist who never paints the same thing twice. Mourning is as individual to each person as their smell, the way they kiss, or the regrets that weigh in their hearts--how quick or heavy it beats.

And so too is his scream for her— of her truest name, the thing her brother called her, tied to her from the womb and beyond human form. He screams, “Bex,” into the dark, the last syllable forming into a roar at the end both from Steve himself— his tired throat only able to growl by then— and the reply of the beast deep within the sanctuary of the cave.

Her eyes open in the dark, and Steve remembers that at the door to death there is a devourer, a reptilian beast with snapping jaws ready to eat heavy hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always forget this: I am on Twitter! Come see me @madam_michael


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bloodthirsty are her claws. He remembers her teeth around his arm, how far back her throat goes. It’s not just that her bite is sharp, it’s hard— a crushing thing that is inescapable.
> 
> Bucky gasps, lurches backwards away from the window and closes his eyes.

Chapter Five:

The day Sarah Rogers dies Bucky wakes up at three in the morning in front of the back door to their house. Bucky remembers going to bed around ten and tossing for about an hour before things fade into the comforting blackness of sleep— the kind Bucky fights for more often than not as of late. Sarah’s health has been declining, and they all knew they were in her last days. It was why Steve had moved back into the house to help, temporarily, and why Bucky spent half his time at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. The other half in his old bedroom in their house on Holloway Street. He has been busy and tired trying to maintain all the little things that must be maintained in a man’s life while his mother dies in front of him. Steve spends all of his time with Sarah, he can’t focus on anything else, and all Bucky wants to do is _help_ Steve--to make things just a little easier. He enjoys helping.

He had decided to stay at his ma’s again that night so he could go to The Diner early tomorrow and bring in some breakfast for all of them--Steve and Sarah across the yard included. Sarah has barely been able to eat anything but a slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top--sometimes a nice cobbler though if it’s peach. Bucky respects it, if he only had a handful of meals left he’d make them all desserts too.

That was why he’d showered and slid into bed after he saw the light across the yard go out; the signal that even Steve had gone to bed. Bucky looks around him now, turns around the yard to find signs of his walking or someone moving him. The back door is open to his own house and his feet are dirty with the wet grass he walked through to get here. He’s never sleep walked (sp?) before. Not that he knows of. But he _needs_ to be here, clearly, at Sarah’s back door because his heart heard the call of Steve’s. So strong, so urgent, so painful to hear that Bucky’s body moved without waking him, carrying him this way.

He gets the key out from under the ceramic blue jay Sarah keeps on the back porch and lets himself in, wiping his feet off on the mat first— he’d hate to track mud into Sarah’s home. Once he’s clean enough he’s sure he can walk on the carpet, he rushes up the stairs, feet so quick that they don’t make a sound, never touching the ground long enough to leave an impression. He stops at Sarah’s door for only a moment, wondering if he should open it. A morbid kind of curiosity lives inside of him that urges him to look at the body--but it’s swiftly stifled by his heart aching to be near Steve, to touch him. Bucky rushes away from the door and into Steve’s room. The man is too big for his childhood bed, and he looks like a sad mass of shadow, huddled over himself in the night and crying into his knees. He hasn’t gotten up, Bucky notes, because he already knows why he’s awake.

Steve is so focused on his sobbing that he doesn’t notice Bucky until he climbs into the bed with him, sitting himself between Steve and his knees, on his lap. He pulls Steve in by the hair and holds his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. The crying continues, this time with Steve wrapping himself into Bucky, holding tight and refusing to let go.

“I called out to her,” Steve says, taking in a shaky breath in an effort to speak clearly. “I was hoping I was wrong. That it was just a nightmare or--” Bucky nuzzles his nose into Steve’s hair and inhales a deep breath. He smells like sweat and sea air--two distinct salty scents mixing and tasting sour together in his throat. He hopes Steve hasn’t been crying alone for long--hopes his sleep walking brought him to Steve in time.

“It’s okay, she was asleep. That’s a good thing,” Bucky reminds him and Steve shakes his head, burying his face deep into Bucky’s bare chest, scratching and burning up the soft skin with his stubble. Steve might not shave for a while after this. There will be so much to do with the funeral and everything.

Bucky runs his hands through Steve’s hair trying to stroke him into more easy sobs. He should be focused on Steve right now, not making a to-do list to get Sarah’s body removed. He feels callous--but that’s what people do when someone dies, right? Becca will want to cover all the mirrors in both Sarah’s home and theirs.

“I’m the last,” Steve whispers, but it’s grown quiet between them, Steve still crying, now soft and worn out from his heaving sobs. Bucky isn’t sure what he means so he doesn’t comment on it. Steve goes on. “Do you know how many species have gone extinct in the last decade?”

Bucky shakes his head, not because he doesn’t know--he doesn’t but that isn’t really the point--but because he doesn’t want to hear Steve talking like this. “You’re not extinct,” Bucky says, firm but trying to keep his movements and his volume gentle.

“I’m the last Rogers. After I go there won’t be— ”

Bucky pulls Steve’s face back, holding him tightly by the back of his hair and tugging hard. He needs Steve to look at him, into his eyes, and see how much this means to Bucky. “We’re gonna make more Rogerses,” Bucky promises, “and Barneses. Becca too. We’re gonna make so many we’ll have to buy every house on this street to fit them.”

Steve smiles, even as he’s crying, and pulling forward against Bucky’s grip in his hair--maybe the pain grounds him. “I think you’re forgetting a key factor there, Buck,” Steve says, teasing.

Bucky smiles--he can give Steve this, comfort and promises he can keep. “They don’t have to have blood or name to be a Rogers and a Barnes,” Bucky reminds him and he can tell that something about this helps Steve ease back into himself.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve says, laying his head back into Bucky’s chest--Bucky drops his grip in Steve’s hair and returns to gentle stroking touches.

“I’d never leave you alone,” Bucky says, another promise. He loves to make promises to Steve— feels happy when he delivers on them. He’s helping, just by being here and holding, Steve he’s helping and it feels so good and right. He’d be a fool to leave this behind.

*

He steps out of the shower and stands on the bath mat, the steam everywhere around him like a thick and warm fog localized to the upstairs bathroom. There’s little chubby cartoon ducks wearing scuba gear on a baby blue backing. It feels too young for anyone in the house and, what really bugs him is: ducks don’t need scuba gear; they can dive all on their own. He looks up from the scientifically embarrassing bath mat to the room around him. He can’t see where he’s going too well— he doesn’t remember making the shower that hot, but it’s a quick two steps to his right to open the window and let the steam flood out. It disperses quickly and the bathroom reveals itself to be exactly how he envisioned under the steam— because he doesn’t remember getting undressed and going into the shower, or taking one.

The last thing he remembers is—

His eyes land on a little loose tile on the backsplash above the sink, just under the cabinet. He reaches around on the underside of the cabinet, hand touching cautiously at the space, afraid he’ll touch a spider web or some sticky gross substance. He suffers this careful and sightless exploration until he finds the small package. He remembers hiding the pack here ages ago so he could have a smoke after a shower without anyone freaking out.

He doesn’t want to make Steve sick but Ma and Bex are always on his case that it’s bad for Bucky’s health too. They are, Bucky will freely admit that, which is why he doesn’t have one a day— he rarely has one a week. He only has one when he showers at his ma’s place. Bucky opens the box to find that he has almost ten cigarettes in there tucked with the lighter he swiped off of Melissa ages ago when she leant it to him and forgot to ask for it back. He has to shake it a little first, he remembers that much. He pops the cigarette into his mouth and lights it one handed. His left arm feels numb and he is afraid to look and see why. Instead he leans out the window, naked as the day he was born; the window stops around his waist so there’s no danger of him inadvertently flashing anyone. But no one ever looks up here. That’s why he’s comfortable smoking out of it like this.

He has a perfect view of their backyard and sees a young girl with purple hair walking through it, her arm linked with a brown haired boy who leads her into Steve’s backyard. Does he know that girl? He must know that girl. Something isn’t right so he inhales the smoke too quickly in an effort to get the nicotine to calm him, but all it does is burn his throat and make him cough. He tries to aim the sound out the window. Ma and Bex can’t find him up here smoking.

He closes his eyes, he has to look at the arm. He makes a slow and steady effort on his next drag of the cigarette, holds it for a count of four, and then exhales as he opens his eyes. The smoke gathers around nothing in the air. Bucky’s shoulder stops near the top of him. He remembers now, the purple haired girl, not the arm, she was smaller and being attacked. He stopped something.

He looks out onto the yard again. His head hurts and he’s just trying to enjoy a cigarette. He doesn’t want to think, for just a few moments, he needs the world to be quiet. He could steady himself in the silence but there’s noise in his brain.

He feels a rumbling in his chest, a noise caught between a purr and a roar, growing and fading with the rise and fall of his chest. He needs to know the source of it, it has to be outside of him— he can’t fight a noise in his mind but he can close the window on an animal lurking in the backyard.

There are no mountain lions in McDunn. No bobcats or otherwise wild felines one should be checking their trees for. And yet that’s the only logical explanation of what Bucky sees pacing in the trees. It’s big, even crouched down on all four paws it looks too large for the space of shadows it wants to hide in. It’s twice as big as any tiger he’s seen at the zoo. Her eyes glint in the moonlight— or maybe it’s her teeth, fangs razor sharp and protruding, ivory sabres seeking fresh blood. Perhaps a thick river of it she could lap up and get drunk on.

Bloodthirsty are her claws. He remembers her teeth around his arm, how far back her throat goes. It’s not just that her bite is sharp, it’s hard— a crushing thing that is inescapable.

Bucky gasps, lurches backwards away from the window and closes his eyes.

Bucky is wishing for Steve to knock on the door or throw a stone on the window from outside. Being alone, without Steve, he hasn’t seen Steve in so long. It’s the thing that scares him more than opening his eyes and finding his arm gone— he doesn’t know if he can stand seeing another piece of him that’s disappeared. Bucky moves forward, feeling out his way back to the window with his eyes closed. He leans out of it again and opens his eyes.

She’s still there, lurking in the dark shade of trees and she almost seems clearer now. Gert is walking with that boy into the line of danger. He has to leap out, put his arm in the cat’s way. She’s lifting one foot to step out, to pounce from the dark when the boy leaps up, catches sight of her and pushes Gert back.

She steps out, gently now, and Bucky clocks her instantly as the source of the roaring, like a drumroll announcing sharp death. She has stripes that fade as they climb up her spine, tufts of hair from her neck to her face, a mane red as dusk.

She must be twelve feet or more on her hind legs, almost as tall as the kids on her front paws. If only he had a rifle, something to aim at and loud enough to scare her off.

In the end, it’s Gert that scares her off, that whistle her parents gave her for emergencies held tight in her lip as she blows, no sound that he or Chase can hear but apparently the lion does. She shakes her head, roars out in agony, and then finally runs away, dashing through the backyards up and down Nightshade, shadows of the trees stretching but never quite hiding all of her at once. There are still glimpses of claws and teeth, something too big for small town streets.

There’s a hug exchanged between the girl with purple hair and her date. He leaps at her, hugs her tightly and somewhat _lifts_ like she’s hit a home run and he’s ready to spin her about in celebration. Gert looks very much like she enjoys it, even when the kid puts her down and offers her his hand. She links their arms together, and trots forward, down the street and towards the beach.

After the steam has all gone and his mouth doesn’t taste like stale cigarettes anymore, he has to admit that there’s no one in the dark but him. Even though that pull towards Steve remains, urging him away. Bucky flicks the cigarette butt away now that it’s lost all the burning heat and Bucky is safely sure he won’t start a fire in the backyard. Bucky slides back inside and closes the window. He hides his cigarettes again, slides on some pants that someone left out for him— he’s not sure who. The house has been awfully quiet for a long time.

He opens the door, and steps out only to almost trip over a girl in a pink hat, crouching at the top of the stairs in hiding. Bucky blinks at her a few times. She looks at him, puts her finger to her lips and, as low as she can, “I’m not here, you don’t see me.”

“Who are you?” Bucky asks because she looks familiar but she doesn’t live here— he knows she doesn’t. Or he thinks that.

She beams at him and winks. “Thanks uncle James.”

She’s Molly.

Of course.

He remembers her; he knows Molly.

She’s like a little sister to him. He rolls his shoulders back, feeling something tense and uncomfortable walk up the back of his spine and settle into the nape of his neck. Something isn’t right; there’s an itch in his brain he can’t scratch.

He kneels down next to her, partly because he feels light headed all of a sudden. He has a question he wants to ask but can’t find the words for it. He knows her but Stacey isn’t his sister— Becca never had kids. He’s known Molly all her life. This is his mother’s house, he hasn’t been here before. The dichotomy is enough to bring the pressure back from behind his eye.

Molly whispers, pointing towards the bottom of the stairs, “They’re fighting about Gert.”

James raises his eyebrows. “About her sneaking out?” He asks.

She gasps, “How did you know?”

“Saw her walking out arm and arm with the neighbor kid,” Bucky replies, “must have shimmied down the lattice work outside of her bedroom.” Molly’s room has much the same qualities. Where is he sleeping? The couch probably--a much harder place for him to sneak out of than either of the girls. Good for Gert though--every teen is entitled to some kind of rebellion and something as small and insignificant as breaking a curfew and sneaking out, it’s almost a rite of passage. He used to do it all the time. He’s not sure when he used to do it but his body feels like it knows how to use the parts of the house that are sturdy to leave unnoticed.

“She’s gonna be in so much trouble,” Molly leans forward and cups her ear so she can hear the loud whisper-arguing better now that James is here disturbing her detective work. Or maybe she's more like a spy or a secret agent. James joins in, resting against the stair railing and closing his eyes so he can hear them better.

“We need to go out and find her,” Stacey says. It might be just Stacey and Dale. James doesn’t hear his father, but he could just be quiet. He does that sometimes, doesn’t speak until the last possible minute and then leaves like the conversation is over just because he finally said something.

“We’re not supposed to leave. Peirce could be back any minute,” Dale replies. It’s strange to think of his mother and feel warmth but think of his father and only see an authority that must be obeyed. Shouldn’t he, at least, feel a kind of affection towards his father? Shouldn’t Stacey?

“We can’t just let her run around like this. We don’t know when she’ll be back, we don’t know what she’ll tell people.” Stacey makes a distressed sound that’s much louder than their conversation has been so far. “He’s going to be so upset. We need to get her back somehow.”

“He’ll be at the fairgrounds, ” Dale explains, talking a little faster than normal— it must be a reaction to Stacey’s stress. “We might have time to find her and bring her back. Maybe he won’t even know?”

Why do they care so much if their father finds out that a teenage girl broke curfew? Gert isn’t even grounded or anything, there’s no reason not to let them out. “We can’t just leave Molly,” Stacey says, “and we don’t know the town.”

“We’ll send James,” Dale suggests. There’s a long silence during which Molly finds a loose thread on the bottom of her shirt and starts to pull at it, seeing how easy it unravels from the slightest tug.

“Can I go with you?” Molly whispers to him. He shrugs— he doesn’t mind but he doesn’t know how they’re going to pull that off. If Molly sneaks out with James to find Gert so that Alexander doesn’t know they snuck out— well that’s just too complex for James right now. Too many moving parts to keep track of.

“He’s not supposed to leave either,” Stacey hisses at her husband. James thinks they could at least _ask_ him if he wants to play bounty hunter before they volunteer him. As far as they know he’s been in the shower this entire time. They should at least consider that he is ready for bed. James looks for a clock in the vicinity but doesn’t find one so he tries to approximate but he can’t. He doesn’t remember getting in the shower— he remembers Molly cutting his hair but the sun had still been out. It’s dark outside now but the sun sets so early in McDunn in March. It could be any time after six thirty.

“This is the perfect time to test his skills,” Dale says. They should just call their daughter, at least let the phone go to voicemail a couple of times before they send him chasing after her. Gert left so early in the evening she’ll probably be back well before midnight. There can’t be much that she can get up to in a town this small— not before midnight at least. He’s not sure how long ago he saw her walking in the backyard.

“He would be faster than both of us,” Stacey sighs, “and someone needs to stay here with Molly.”

James doesn’t miss the eyeroll Molly does, one would have to be in another room to miss it. He understands her frustration at least a little; she’s fourteen and they still treat her like a little kid. He’s thinking about sneaking out himself— he needed to talk to Rogers about something but he can’t remember what. Maybe when he sees Rogers, it will jar his memory.

“Let me come with you,” Molly asks, tugging on the two ends of her pink hat. James shakes his head.

“There’s no way they would let me,” He explains, but she’s already pouting. She rests her chin in her hand and listens a little longer.

Dale and Stacey have a little more hushed and hurried back and forth before Stacey calls out to him. James stands, gives a soft tussel to Molly’s hair before heading down the stairs. As he descends she says, just loud enough that he can hear, “Tell me what the outside world is like.” He gives her a little salute in reply.

He enters the room just as Stacey is taking in a deep breath to call out for him again. She gets through the first syllable of his name and then stops when she sees him. “There you are,” She says, anxiously wringing her hands. “I need you to do something and don’t tell,” She stumbles over the words like she can’t remember the name of someone before she lands on, “dad.”

“Where is he anyway?” James asks, looking around the living room to see if he’s sitting in a leather swivel chair, ready to turn to them dramatically, stroking a white cat that he inexplicably has in the house. He’ll smirk and say he’s caught them at something.

“He went to the la-” Stacey elbows Dale in the ribs and the man doubles forward, maybe not over the pain but because of how sudden it must have been. “He went out,” Dale finishes.

“Sorry, honey,” she says, quick and under her breath to him before she refocuses on James, “Gert isn’t in her bedroom. You need to go out and find her.”

James looks between the two of them, then up the stairs, and out the front door. “So dad is allowed to go into town but the rest of us aren’t.” They don’t answer him so he lets it go. “It’s barely past,” there are no clocks in this room and now he wonders if there are any in the house at all.

“Seven thirty?” Dale offers and James nods.

“Can’t you at least give her another hour before you send the hounds out for her?” He finishes.

Stacey reaches forward, hesitates but only for a split second, and then grabs his hand and holds it. Her hands feel cold and unfamiliar. She doesn’t hold him quite right; more like she’s trying to grasp onto a squirming kitten that wants to wriggle out of her grip. “Things can go very badly for Gert if Alexander comes home and she isn’t here.”

She’s afraid. He’s seen her nervous, definitely jumpy, but this is absolute fear. James can’t even imagine what horrible scenarios must be going through her mind right now— even if he is sure they’re exaggerated and probably unlikely. He understands that mothers worry though and he doesn’t like that she’s so scared. It makes him pity her and the emotion is unfamiliar.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he sighs, “Small town. She can’t have gotten far.” It helps, also, that he saw her leave, the direction she took, and he knows who she’s with. It shouldn’t be too hard to find her. Convincing her to come back before she’s had her fun will be the real challenge. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it but he can worry about that when the time comes.

Stacey drops his hands and puts her hand over her chest, relieved and he feels happy that he was able to give that to her— to ease the tightness in her chest. Dale really throws him for a loop when he hugs James, too tight and too friendly so James goes stiff in the other man’s embrace and just waits, quietly, for him to finish. It takes a little too long and James really needs to start on his quest— it’s a small town but the further Gert gets away from the house the harder it will be and the longer it will take to find and bring her back.

It’s Stacey that tugs on Dale’s shirt sleeve and gets him to finally pull away. James smiles, amused and a little uncertain. “This shouldn’t take me long,” He promises, as he pulls his leather jacket off of the coat rack and throws it on. “Hang tight. I’ll find her.”

They watch him leave. They stand in the doorway and they keep watching him as he walks down the sidewalk and around the house through their backyard. Curious as they are to watch him, it isn’t enough to bring them to the back door and observe where he goes from the safety of their kitchen.

It’s a lucky thing for Molly that they don’t, he thinks after he sees Molly jumping off the lattice just a few feet from the bottom and stick the landing. When she looks up she sees him almost immediately and there is a shared look that stretches between them before James waves her off. He points in the direction of Gert and Molly, in her excitement and gratitude, blows him a kiss before she runs, literally runs off. He has to laugh. Dale and Stacey won’t like it but at least she’ll be with her sister. James can find them both just as easily as he can find just one of them. Besides, he thinks, Molly should at least have some fun outside of the house.

It’s not strictly part of his mission, and he almost certainly shouldn’t do it, but instead of following Gert immediately Bucky searches for Steve Rogers. He doesn’t know why but it feels like Steve will have answers for him.

*

Ty hasn’t texted his parents yet. Technically, on a normal day, The Diner would only just now be closing so he has a while before he’s expected home anyway. He remembers that he has to text his mom soon, while he lays on the beach with Tandy. They’re still holding hands, but the sun has long since set and the stars are free of cloud coverage so the two of them laid back to watch the sky for a while. His mind is quiet here, for the most part; it’s one of the few times he can have a quiet mind. Other than the reminder that his mother worries and he really needs to keep an eye on the clock to call her, he feels like there are no responsibilities in the world. There’s even enough moonlight to see by, a rare thing for McDunn in early March.

Tandy shivers and he sits up, drops her hand to take off his hoodie and she stops him. “Ty, don’t do that. You’ll freeze,” She says. She borrows it all the time, usually without asking, so he isn’t sure what the big deal is right now if he’s cold. The hoodie comes off of his shoulders and he does start to shiver a little bit. It’s Billy’s hoodie, Ty borrowed it from him without asking and even on hot days Ty still takes it out to wear it around the house. It bothers him that it used to be so big around his shoulders and he’s grown into it now. Ty hopes he never grows too big for it.

She grabs the hoodie and pulls it back onto him and something of a wrestling match begins to play out of Ty trying to take off his hoodie and Tandy trying to trap him in it. She fights dirty and her hands are quick little thieves that alternate between pulling at his clothes and tickling him just under the ribs so he laughs and squirms. He loses hold a little on the hoodie more than a couple times. She’s so tiny, he could push her off easily if he wanted to but he likes how easy this feels. There’s something so normal and nostalgic about it, like when they were kids having little tickle fights over his hoodie.

She makes a bold move, something she hasn’t done before, and dives into his torso, she wraps her arms tight around his waist and then latches herself there like a sloth. She goes dead weight and all one hundred twenty pounds of her is enough to push him into laying back down on the beach.

The rough housing has come to a full stop now, laying on the beach, stars stretched out above them, with Tandy wrapped tightly around him, panting and laughing at how silly they are. Her weight is a comfort when it settles into him, a heavy blanket that covers him and keeps him warm. She’s not shivering anymore but he takes the end of his hoodie and zips it up around both of them, so Tandy is like a burrito wrapped against him. Technically, Ty supposes, they’re both the innards of the burrito and his hoodie is the tortilla.

“Ty?” She’s not looking at him, but she isn’t looking at the stars either. The side of her face is pressed into his chest, her ear over his heart. He tries to look down at her, but the angle is awkward, and he’s sure he looks like he has a double chin anyway, so he refocuses on the stars and gives her a small “hm?” to let her know he’s listening.

But she doesn’t say anything. He waits while she counts out his heart beats but she doesn’t finish her thought.

“What is it?” He asks, because she’s not getting out that easy. She has something she needs to tell him, maybe a tough conversation they need to have— maybe she just needs a little prompting. She’s safe to say anything to him.

But Tandy Bowen doesn’t have tough conversations.

“Nothing,” She says, “It’s just this is nice. I like this.” Her voice quivers at the end, and he thinks for a moment that she’s about to cry but she doesn’t.

“I like this too,” He says. There are stars in New York, he’s sure, or at Santa Clara, or Penn State, or wherever else he gets in. They have tiny blonde ballerinas there too, he’s sure, maybe even a shore line to lay on. But it won’t be like it is now, no girl will mean to him what she means right in this moment.

He’s crying now— maybe she passed it on to him, tapped it into the beats of his heart like a little spell. He doesn’t realize it until she sits up, pulling and stretching at the fabric of the hoodie zipped around the two of them. She has to press her hands into the ground and angle weirdly to look at him but she does manage it— even when he wipes at his eyes and tries to hide it. She says his name again, and he hates how it sounds in her mouth, like the word is a title, something bigger than him, and he can’t fit into the role. He has to leave her and it’s not fair. He has to leave his parents, their last living son, and that isn’t fair either. Billy never even filled out an application and that isn’t fair. This moment between him and Tandy, their whole lives since they met, feels so heart-breakingly unfair.

“It’s okay,” She says. She pulls her sleeve up onto her hand, pins it against her palm with her fingers, and then uses it as a makeshift handkerchief to clean off his tears from his face. “Tell me and I’ll fix it,” She says and she can’t know how big a promise that is— the near impossibility of her offer. There’s no solution, nothing to be done, and any promises she makes to him can’t bring Billy back any more than blood on his bedroom door would have protected him.

He can’t say all that so he shakes his head. “When you’re ready then,” She amends. He’s never going to be ready, but he accepts this comfort anyway. He leans into her, settles his face into her shoulder and lets her hold him. Billy used to rub little circles into his back when Ty was sick as a kid, something he picked up from their father who stopped a couple years ago when he felt Ty was too old for it. He is too old for it, most of the time, but right now he feels lost and scared like a child.

Tandy doesn’t do the little circles on his back, but she does run her fingers up and down his spine, gentle and comforting enough that he can cry himself out just a little. The catalog doesn’t rattle, settles and is calm so long as her hand doesn’t stop soothing him. It’s such a relief to cry and be held— to be allowed to cry. The weight in his spine is lifted— he feels light.

When the feeling passes, or at least goes dormant— satiated at last and returning into the deep recesses of his heart to rest— he pulls out of her embrace just enough to look at her.

He wants to kiss her.

He shouldn’t kiss her.

He can’t start something like that with her, not now, not only to just up and leave her when he graduates. He can’t rob her of her title of Best Friend only so she can wear “highschool girlfriend” as a costume for a few months. All the things that Billy never got to do feel like obligations to Ty. He _must_ and he _has_ to because first born sons carry so much and second borns even more when they must pick up the load, add it to his own labor, and smile like it isn’t heavy. So many expectations and he can’t keep track of them all.

Someone who cannot read a room nor the appropriate volume of his voice shouts a greeting at them and whatever moment was building between them it snaps off now. Ty takes it in stride, unzipping the hoodie so Tandy can be free to move away from him— she turns to Chase and glares at him looking truly upset with his presence.

“What are you guys doing out here?” Chase asks as he approaches, a purple haired girl in an old army green jacket linked into his arm. “Isn’t The Diner still open for another few minutes?” Chase pulls out his phone and checks the clock on it. Ty takes this time to look at his too— he’ll have to call his mother in the next few minutes then, at least to tell her he’s hanging out with his friends a little late tonight.

“What are you? My manager?” Tandy asks, rolling off of Ty and standing to dust off the sand from her body. She’s got a lot of it sticking to her knees and the back of her legs.

“No, I was just, um,” Chase looks to Ty, a question in his gaze that Ty doesn’t want to answer right now, certainly not out loud and in front of two girls. Even though Ty doesn’t verbally acknowledge Chase’s question the other boy seems to find something in Ty’s expression that answers him. “Hey we just fought off a mountain lion,” Chase offers up as a change of subject. His eyes get wide with excitement while his left hand trembles with residual fear. Ty understands the need to put fear off until it’s safe to feel it.

“It was hiding in that tree in my yard,” Chase goes on. Chase’s hand trembles at his side, just a little, and Ty thinks he must have been so scared. Chase probably had to keep calm in front of a lion. “I read somewhere that you got to make yourself look bigger to scare a mountain lion.”

Chase re-enacts the method of “making himself look bigger” he took: standing on his tip toes and spreading his arms out and looking completely ridiculous. Undoubtedly the lion ran off because Chase looked like too much work.

“It was a bear though,” the purple haired girl objects, “it was too big to be a mountain lion.”

“There aren’t mountain lions in Maine,” Ty offers, “could have been a bear though. Weird time of year for them.”

“Since when do you know so much about bears?” Tandy asks, clearly teasing him.

He rolls his eyes, “I read.” Ty puts his hand up in a wave at Chase’s companion and says, “I’m Ty.”

“This is Gert,” Chase says quickly, as if hurrying through the introduction can fix that he forgot about it, “She just moved into the house behind us,” Chase gestures to the girl he brought with him who doesn’t look thrilled to be used as some kind of deflection.

Tandy puts her hands in her pockets and gives Gert an up-nod in greeting. “I’m Tandy,” she inclines her head towards the water, “You come to see the dinosaur?”

Ty stands up and claps the sand off of his hands before he offers one to Gert. She takes it and gives him a cordial smile and a soft shake before she replies to Tandy, “Who wouldn’t want to see a real live dinosaur?”

“That’s what I said,” Ty says, beaming in vindication as he turns to Tandy and waits for her to indicate that he was right.

“It’s like no one here has seen Jurassic Park,” Tandy sighs rolling her eyes but her lips are twitching, trying to smile and not smile at him at the same time.

“What’s Jurassic Park?” Gert asks. Ty laughs, Chase and Tandy do too, the only one who doesn’t is Gert who looks between them puzzled until their mirth fizzles out.

“You’re serious?” Tandy asks. She looks between Chase and Ty like maybe they’re in on a joke without her but they look equally as perplexed. “Right okay, it’s an old movie,” Tandy reasons, “but you’ve at least heard of it right?”

Gert opens and closes her mouth a few times, eyes darting between the three of them like her answer isn’t the one they want and she can’t think of what else to say. She shrugs, “My parents are more ‘Harold and Maude’ people.”

“Cat Stevens soundtrack. Nice,” Ty says, partly because the awkwardness feels too heavy and mostly because he genuinely likes a few Cat Stevens songs. Gert smiles at him, grateful for the deflection.

“I love to play that on shuffle with The Graduate soundtrack,” Gert says, stepping closer into their tight circle. The chill is picking up and they’re slowly huddling together like penguins, all four of them.

“Thematic playlists are the best,” He says, then taps Tandy on the shoulder, “she loves my playlists.”

“Are we seriously just skipping over the Jurassic Park thing?” Tandy asks, really loud and Ty sighs in exasperation.

“Yeah, Tandy, that’s kind of exactly what we were doing,” He says. She looks embarrassed but she’s chuckling a little so at least she finds it funny.

“My bad, I was just making sure,” Tandy says putting up her hands in lazy resignation, “so where are you from, Gertrude?”

“Portland,” She says, and then, quickly, “Maine. Not Portland, Oregon although I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“Portlandia is hilarious,” Chase offers. He’s usually much smoother than this, Ty isn’t sure what’s up with him. There is an awkward silence that follows Chase’s statement during which Ty taps him on the elbow to get his attention and ask silently if he’s okay. Chase’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head, begging for his help.

“Well, anyway,” Tandy says, amused by Chase’s plight, “we’ve been out here since sunset and haven’t seen the dinosaur yet so it might be a no show.”

“That’s too bad,” Gert says, sounding truly disappointed. “I kind of snuck out,” She confesses and Tandy’s eyes light up in a way that tells Ty this information likens her towards the new girl.

“You don’t say,” Tandy smiles, “well we can’t send you home without some kind of story.”

“There aren’t very many other places in town to go. Not after sunset, anyway,” Chase says, more dejected with every word. He must have promised Gert some kind of amazing evening— over shot trying to impress her. Poor guy— Ty would help him if he only knew how.

“Are you sure?” Tandy says it coyly, as if the question is meant to whet their appetite, and it somewhat does during the brief moment before she continues, “Because there’s an abandoned amusement park up the beach a ways. It’s not a hard walk and it’s really creepy.”

“Tandy I don’t think that’s-” Ty starts but Chase makes an urgent noise to get Ty’s attention and then pleads for Ty’s help. Ty has no idea how he’s supposed to help. He really needs to call his mom.

“That sounds kinda fun,” Gert takes the bait Tandy has set and walks to stand beside her. Ty feels this action creates a line in the sand and he’s not on the same side of it as Tandy. He’s not on the same side of it as Chase either after four seconds. The boy practically leaps to be next to Gert on the: Go To The Obviously Haunted Carnival Of Evil side of this invisible line. Ty sighs and pulls out his phone. Neither of his parents have texted yet to ask for an update so he takes the time now. That’s good, that means they aren’t worried. Not yet anyway.

“Ty?” Tandy asks and he holds up a finger to ask for just one moment while he texts his mom. Once he gets a thumbs up, a few heart emojis, a prayer emoji, and a _ilysm_ he puts the phone back in his pocket.

“Chase, if my parents ask I’m staying at yours,” He says before finally crossing over the line to be at Tandy’s side.

“We don’t have to,” Tandy says and that makes him laugh out loud and hold his belly. It's so funny.

“Okay a lot of good that does me now. I already lied to my mom,” He waggles his finger at her, mockingly chastising and she laughs too.

“It doesn’t have to be a lie,” Chase offers, “you can crash at mine. My mom doesn’t care.” Tandy links her arm into Ty’s but then her eye catches something behind them and she pulls off. He turns to ask her what’s up but then he sees the girl too, coming up the beach towards them and breaking into a run once she catches sight of them. She has a pink hat and she can’t be much younger than them.

Gert waves at her, uses both arms to do it too which seems a little silly to Ty since the girl clearly already sees them if she’s running at them. Chase puts his arms up and starts waving too as if this would help. Ty glances at Tandy, they catch each other’s gazes and agree without speaking that Chase is a total dork right now and it’s the funniest he’s ever been.

“Molly,” Gert calls to her, happy and loud, smiling all the way up until the girl arrives in their radius and slides up to Gert to give her a hug. “You got out?” They don't look alike; Molly's hair has full dark curls next to Gert's straight lined purple. Even though Molly looks younger, she's a little taller than her older sister. But they are sisters— in one form or another. Ty can tell by the way Molly rests her temple on Gert's shoulder and how Gert squeezes her with such tenderness. There's a way siblings hold each other that's unmistakable— the older one always cradling the younger. Ty wonders if he's taller than Billy was now.

“Uncle James helped a little,” Molly explains, “Dale and Stace sent him after you, by the way.”

“Is he on his way?” Gert asks, joy deflating rapidly as she learns her adventure could be cut short.

Molly shrugs. “Kind of? I think he’s gonna give us a little while and then ‘find us’ and bring us back.” Molly surveys the other kids, up nodding at Chase whom she must have already met, and then waving at Ty and Tandy.

“This is my little sister, Molly,” Gert introduces, stepping aside to present her to the group. “She snuck out too.”

“You guys seem fun,” Tandy says, tone a little light and teasing but there’s no doubt in Ty’s mind that she means it. Parental rebellion is Tandy’s favorite thing. Ty has a need in him sometimes to do things against his parents wishes, an urge that must be inside all teenagers even perfect Billy who Ty remembers taking the car a few times without permission just to get milkshakes or ride around in.

“We should go though,” Chase suggests, looking around the beach in the dark, “before it gets too late.” Ty would maybe never break curfew if Tandy didn’t pull that out of him once in a while. Whenever he gets that rebellion itch it’s nice to have Tandy with him. It’s safer to rebel with her than without. Having Chase and Gert along helps too.

“We’re doing a Scooby Doo adventure, Molls,” Gert informs her, “you want to come?”

“Abandoned underground mansion?” Molly asks. She tugs on the ends of her hat and brings it down comically too far over her eyes.

“Abandoned amusement park,” Gert corrects. Molly grins wide and nods with her whole upper body. She pushes the hat back up off of her eyes and situates it comfortably on her head.

“Awesome,” Molly turns around looking for a path in the near dark, “where is it? I want to see.”

“Should we be taking her?” Chase asks, lowering his voice a little so he doesn’t offend Molly. She hears him, though she chooses to cross her arms and let Gert straighten him out instead of doing it herself. She can probably tell from the way Gert raises her hackles that she’s all ready to lay into Chase about it.

Oddly enough it’s Tandy that saves him from the impending smackdown, she simply starts walking in the direction of the fairgrounds, pushing past Chase and, to Ty’s surprise, Molly and Gert follow her. Chase looks at Ty, pleading and confused. He asks, “Am I doing something wrong?”

Ty shrugs. “Like I would know,” he answers and Chase nods in agreement before he and Ty turn to walk after the girls. They’re a few feet behind them but that distance grows a little by the minute as the girls take a quicker pace and he and Chase fall back to walk at a more relaxed stride.

Once he’s sure there’s the right amount of distance between them, Chase turns on him and asks in earnest, so much that Ty is afraid for a moment that the boy is going to shake him, “Bro, are you and Tandy like a thing now?”

Ty rolls his shoulders, feeling uncomfortably hot under his hoodie all of a sudden and wishing Chase either had more tact or less observation. Although, if Ty is being fair, he did walk up on him and Tandy wrestling in the sand, trapped inside his hoodie together. Chase would have to be willingly stupid not to notice something. “I don’t know,” Ty replies, finally, feeling less tense now that he can say it out loud, to someone, how confused and forlorn he is over the whole thing. Ty would normally talk to Tandy about it— but that wasn’t an option. Learning that Chase is an option makes him feel more at peace.

Ty checks one more time that the girls are far enough ahead of him not to hear— he judges it by the bits of their conversation he can get: every sixth word and mostly Tandy talking. He catches a dinosaur word so she’s either beguiling them with the second-hand account of Captain Rogers and The Beast of McDunn— or she is meticulously explaining the plot of Jurassic Park.

“Things have felt like they’re changing for a while now,” Ty confesses— it feels so good to say it out loud. It feels like a creature, a ghost, that can only be exercised if made corporeal. Ty can picture this ghost living with him in New York or wherever he ends up that isn’t in McDunn. He can imagine saying ‘goodnight’ to the ghost before bed, and waking up to it every morning. An ever present ghoul reminding him that Ty can’t have what he wants— he can only have what the ghost mourns for.

“That’s great,” Chase says, genuinely excited for Ty and that makes him feel a little better. It’s nice to feel supported in his agonizing life choices.

“No, it’s not,” Ty insists, he shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket because they feel too cold exposed to the night sea air. “She’s my best friend. I can’t just kiss my best friend.”

“People kiss their friends all the time,” Chase pauses, “I mean not me, specifically, I mean I would though. If it came up. If there was a girl that was, you know, perfect for me.” Ty is a little annoyed that Chase has slipped into talking about himself, about his situation with the new girl. Ty is pretty sure if Chase is the one that introduces her to Jurassic Park the boy will have a fighting chance.

“You think Tandy is perfect for me?” Ty asks, teasing Chase for getting off topic and trying to make something of a joke out of the idea that any two people are _perfect_ for each other. There is an incredibly awkward silence in which it becomes clear that Chase does _not_ think that Ty and Tandy are perfect together. His deer in the headlights gaze is too much for Ty and he gives him a soft nudge in the ribs to break the tension. “Dude come on,” Ty sighs. He doesn’t want to be insulted— he did _ask_ Chase after all, and he knew that the answer was going to be negative. Sometimes it feels like he and Tandy are the only two people who like them spending time together. It’s something else to see the awkward disapproval though— seeing it brings up thoughts and reasons and an ache in his pulse. Not just his heart but in his veins and the places where his blood beats closest to his skin. In his wrists especially and he flexes his fingers to try and coax the ache out.

He can’t blame Chase for having his own opinion but it does make him feel like Chase was the wrong person to talk to about this. There are things that he doesn’t understand about his and Tandy’s relationship. Ty isn’t sure he understands all the time, especially right now and especially half an hour ago when they almost kissed. Having an older brother to talk to about it would be perfect.

“I’m sorry,” Chase says, quickly, “It’s just you seem like you’re in the ‘no’ camp on that. And you seem like you’re miserable about it.” Chase is right about that, at least, “Why not? You two love each other. As friends, obviously. Why not make something out of that?”

“Because I’m moving away in six months,” Ty says bitterly, having to hear the number out loud, to hear it getting shorter every day, leaves his mouth feeling dry and sour. It’s worse that he’s rounding up to six months. It’s more like five and some change.

“You got into NYU didn’t you?” Chase asks, his own mood deflating a little at the news before he perks up, “I knew you would.”

“I haven’t made any decisions yet,” That’s not technically a lie, if Ty were to pick any school he’d pick NYU but the longer he puts off verbalizing the truth the longer he puts off having to tell Tandy.

“What else are you going to do?” Chase looks up towards the girls on the beach and then quickly back to Ty, “Are things worse with her mom?”

Ty shakes his head. Things aren’t good with Melissa, but they aren’t worse. They’re the same way they’ve always been. Tandy still sweeping up broken bottles from the floor— muttering to herself how clumsy they both are: breaking things all the time, saying things they don’t mean. Worse would be Nathan Bowen, who wasn’t going to climb out of the ground anytime soon.

If he was actually in the ground. The double edged sword cuts him again: if Billy is still out there somewhere so is Nathan Bowen. The man who Ty saw call his daughter a tar pit before he slammed the car door in her face. Tandy hates hot days and small spaces— Ty does too. He thinks about the tight space underneath the sedan, laying flat on his back in hiding, holding his breath for Billy. The smell was chemical, motor oil and asphalt, and he was scared the whole time.

“I could take a year off school, maybe, just to make sure Tandy’s safe,” Ty explains, like that’s actually an option. He can’t build that kind of resentment between them, that dependency. That’s too high a pedestal for him to climb— too far for her to fall if he puts her up there. “Or something,” he adds lamely, hoping that sometime, eventually “or something” will come to him. It will solve all their problems.

“She’s not in danger is she?” Chase asks— it’s such a profoundly bad question and he at least seems to realize it when he amends, “I mean you’re always looking out for her. But she can get by on her own right?”

“Tandy’s not so good at looking after herself. She has all these bad thoughts,” She used to say them all to him, like a confession, but she’s been quiet lately. Like she’s hiding something— the same way she can probably tell that he’s hiding something. “Rumlow hassles her too.”

“She should go to someone about that,” Chase says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and there’s a way he winces at his own words, like he feels how useless they are outloud. “Like someone who would actually do something.”

“No one in this town is gonna do anything more than they’ve been,” Ty says— there’s another rock in his shoe. He can feel it and he tries to angle it to roll in between his toes so he can catch and hold it, make it easier to shake out of this shoe. “I feel useless,” Ty confesses and Chase gives him a gentle nudge, shoulder to shoulder because he doesn’t know what to say, but he wants Ty to know he’s there, listening. He’s got his back for this.

“You’re not useless,” Chase says, clearing his throat half way through like he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say— he means it though and that’s why he repeats it: so Ty can hear it without faltering. “Maybe you could, I don’t know, train to be a cop? Then you could take over Rumlow’s—” It’s a terrible idea and Chase takes so long to realize it, or at least to clock Ty rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Ty stops walking. “Sorry,” Chase says, stopping to and scratching the back of his neck. “I’m trying to help. I don’t know how to help.”

There’s so much Chase can’t know and when it slips out like that it’s hard not to feel divided— pulled from a group and asked to suffer alone. “Just,” Ty sighs, and he must sound as tired as he feels because Chase bites down on his lips to keep from speaking any more, “that honey versus vinegar stuff? Just forget all that. That’s not a solution.” Ty starts walking again, Chase falling into the pace alongside him. “There’s no use charming a snake after he’s bit.”

Ty’s mother cries about him going away to school. She hides it, Ty isn’t sure even his dad knows, but he can hear her in the living room at night, looking through newspaper article after article about the dangers of New York City. She cries because Billy didn’t make it— but she also cries because Ty will be alone and unguarded in a city full of Rumlows and not all of them are going to back off because Tandy asked for a tampon. Ty’s scared of it too, enough that he climbs back up the stairs at night, slow enough to keep them from creaking, and doesn’t let his mother know he caught her crying. He worries about her doing it alone so often though. He wishes he could hold her through it, the way she’s done for him, but she has a rule about parents leaning on children. Something about how children are meant to be carried until they can hold themselves up. Doing it the other way around upsets the delicate balance of life.

“What if no one ever really disappears from here,” Ty asks, needing things to shift away from the unpleasant reality that rolls closer with each minute. It weighs into him, runs up and down his spinal cord, and feels too heavy to carry. “What if they just abandon all of us? Each one just decides one day to leave.”

“It’s not like that,” Chase insists but he doesn’t know— in a similar way that Tandy doesn’t know. Chase wants Victor back about as much as Melissa wants her ex to walk through the door. Neither of them know what it’s like to miss the person that leaves. Ty is worse off for it. “Ty,” Chase says, stopping and firmly taking Ty by the shoulder to still him, to make him look Chase in the eyes. “Billy wouldn’t just leave you like that.”

“How do you know?” Ty asks. He’s got him there: Chase had never met Billy, he had only seen the pictures in Ty’s house and heard the stories of a perfect boy, an angelified version of Billy. Truthfully it’s been so long for Ty that he’s not sure he remembers anything about Billy that wasn’t painted up to make him a living saint. A threshold Ty can never rise to, no matter how much longer he lives than Billy, no matter how many schools he’s accepted into, no matter how many things he does and has that Billy didn’t. It makes him want Billy back in the most selfish of ways. He wants his brother, a real version of his brother, one who leaves change in his jeans when they need to be washed. The one who smokes cloves in his car after their parents go to sleep. The one who takes the last ice pop out of the freezer even though he’s already had one that day and Ty hasn’t had any. The one who holds the remote control up a few inches away from Ty’s reach so he can watch the game instead of Zorro for the millionth time. Ty needs Billy to be real again, _human_ , imperfect so he can set the expectations that much lower.

He should want his brother back because he’s his _brother_ , because their mother cried so hard and their father couldn’t cry at all, because it’s easier to go through life with someone always looking out for him, for _family_ to look out for him. Instead he just wants to ease his own burdens. Empty some of the catalog drawers and have them shred. Selfish. He’s so selfish.

“Well I’ve only been friends with you for a couple of years,” Chase explains, he shoves his hands into his jean pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t think there’s anything that could make me leave, willingly, without at least calling you.”

Ty finds that a kind thing to hear, made warmer by the way Chase _means_ it. Ty looks up at the other half of their little group. He can’t see the other two girls very well, but he sees that Tandy has stopped walking, probably two yards away from where he and Chase have stopped. She’s waiting for him, patiently.

He jerks his head in her direction and pulls Chase along, into movement again. They don't want it to be _too_ late by the time they get to the carnival. Tandy waits for them to catch up and once he’s close enough, she takes Ty’s hand and walks at his pace.

“You two need to pick it up, these girls are trying to outrun their uncle,” Tandy warns them. Ty interlaces their fingers.

“Hey, Gert! Wait up,” Chase calls to them, flashing Ty a quick thumbs up before he runs forward, into the dark, and finds his roaming lady love and her little sister.

“You can walk ahead of me,” Ty says to her, once they’re alone and the other three remain far ahead and beyond earshot, “we’re all going to the same place.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you, Johnson,” Tandy says, smug and a little flirty, her usual mood, “Who’s going to look out for you?”

His heart sinks as he asks himself the exact same thing.

*

Sam is a professional— as much as his role on the show calls for anyway. The persona of Sam Wilson on camera is a different spectacle from the man himself. All “television people” do it from Trish Walker, to Eddie Brock— even Clint is less shy and more touchy feely on camera than when they’re off screen. Off screen Clint keeps his body to himself and only touches Sam in emergencies; such as that time back in Boston when Sam almost walked into traffic and Clint had to grab him by the arm and yank him backwards out of harm’s way. Camera Persona Clint would have made a big deal about it: joke and jostle with Sam over how he owed Clint his life. But camera off Clint just waved it off every time Sam tried to thank him like he was embarrassed to have done it. He’s humble off camera.

Sam is a professional journalist when he’s given the right kind of story, ones he can submit to journals and do a little moonlighting on other websites. For his show persona he’s a cryptid chasing Bromantic Fox Mulder. On-camera-Sam and professional-journalist-Sam both agree that Rogers had every right not to be interviewed by reporters.

But Sam the man, just as a person in general, could be really petty when he felt like it and Rogers skipping out on them but leaving them alone in his home unsupervised— well he decided to be petty. He’s moved all the furniture he could lift by himself and cleared a space on Rogers floor. Sam uses the space to do his sunset prayers and, when those are done, moves the rest of the furniture approximately two inches to the left. Just enough to be confusing for Rogers when he comes home in the dark.

He has some time to kill but he isn’t sure how much. Kate and Clint left almost forty minutes ago looking for either their escaped source or a suitable replacement. Sam takes a seat on the porch swing to make himself comfortable while he waits for word from either of them. He does, after some time, feel a little uncomfortable in Rogers quiet living room.

In the meantime, Sam opens his ASL learning app and does a couple rounds of reviewing signs. Having Kate is amazing but she won’t be their intern forever and Sam wants to be able to communicate with Clint on a level that’s more comfortable for him. Sam has been studying for a few months but he doesn’t feel ready to show Clint yet. He needs to be better at it, able to hold a conversation at least. Sam bounces his knee while he mimics a couple different beach themed signs: Sunrise, sunset, sand, water. He loves to imagine Clint’s face, the surprise, when Sam shows him what he’s learned so far. Tide, foghorn, lighthouse. Clint is going to be so stoked when he realizes he doesn’t have to stare at Sam’s mouth all the time. Waves, ocean, surf.

Sam wonders if Clint surfs. It’s an easy thing to imagine: Clint in a wetsuit, carrying a surfboard under one arm while he runs and dives into the sea. Sam shifts sitting positions on the swing and tries to refocus on the ASL lessons. He gets Kate’s text before he can graduate to any themed lessons besides the beach. She says it’s urgent, that he has to meet them at the lighthouse right away.

He packs up the equipment they unpacked for Rogers and takes it towards the van only to pause and redirect towards the shore. The docks aren’t too far from here, Sam can hear the distant sound of soft wood on waves knocking against each other. Sam stops to get supplies out of the van. He stuffs four flashlights and batteries in his pack before he turns one on, loads up his bags, and takes off towards the lighthouse. Sure enough, he walks for only fifteen minutes before he comes upon the docks, only a dozen or so boats, each tied and locked to it’s own little docking station. Sam looks for a speed boat because he’s always wanted to drive one of those things in a high speed chase like in Miami Vice. There are a handful of the speed boats just from the small amount that is here— but only one is labeled “The Jolly Rogers” and is left untied.

Sam allows himself to be viciously pleased for approximately ninety seconds while he sets the equipment down and fantasizes about test driving Steve Rogers’ speed boat. He imagines the angry look on Rogers’ face, the impressed applause from Kate as he pulls up to them on the beach. Not to mention how amazed Clint will look, gazing at Sam as he pulls up in his sun glasses— because in this fantasy he borrows the boat during daylight hours— and says all smoothly, “Need a ride?”.

It’s a nice fantasy, but Sam really doesn’t think there’s a good reason to pull up on speedboat. Maybe in an emergency, but there isn’t any emergency, other than Sam needing to get to Kate and Clint to finish the story. If he’d taken the van to the lighthouse it might have sunk and been hard to dig out— Sam doesn’t know the whim of the tide in these parts and it’s only another seven minutes to the lighthouse anyway. He sees Clint first, waving him down a little ways up the beach. Once Sam is close enough to see them better he notices Kate crouched at the lighthouse door fiddling with the lock.

Sam points the flash light up into his face so Clint can see him speaking in the dark. “The lighthouse he locked but the cottage he left completely unguarded?” There’s a lot of moonlight, Sam can see Clint’s face pretty well but just in case he keeps the light on his face so Clint doesn’t miss anything.

“He’s got to have the bodies in here,” Clint says. He reaches up and clicks a light on that shines in Sam’s eyes for a moment before Clint readjusts it. It’s a headlamp— Clint looks like a spelunker. Sam runs through in his head what “cave” is in ASL. Non-dominant hand behind dominant, both in the shape of a C. Dominant hand moves forward, non-dominant stays still. Only move both hands when referring to a tunnel. Something that goes both ways like Sam himself.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Sam asks, peering around Clint to see how Kate is coming along with her little lock pick project. Sam is pretty sure Kate doesn’t actually _know_ how to pick locks; most likely she had googled it mere minutes before and was just trying to learn by doing at this point.

“‘She’ is sitting right here, doing you a favor, and she can hear you,” Kate reminds him, voice a little more frustrated than the statements warrants— but then again Sam would be frustrated too if he had to pick a lock after only one youtube minute of instruction.

“You’ve seen Tammy and The T-Rex, right?” Clint asks. Clint does that a lot, lets whatever thought his mind has come out of his mouth. Sam finds it kind of cute— it’s at least fun trying to track how Clint got from conversation A to random thought B.

Sam shakes his head, “I am not watching any more of your weird horror flicks,” Sam declares, “not after _Head of the Family_ ”.

The reminder of the film, maybe even the way Sam complained the entire time he watched it, makes Clint laugh. Sam live texted his every increasingly loopy thought to Clint during the duration and was met with several ironic notes praising the films lack of quality. “Head of the Family is good,” Clint insists, “that’s a good film I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“You’re gonna outline the entire plot to this T-rex movie aren’t you?” Sam asks, before Clint does, indeed, launch into adulation.

“A young Denese Richards,” Clint says, before Sam even finishes asking. Clint’s face is all lit up, not just from the moonlight or the shine of all their flashlights, but because he loves to painstakingly describe the plots of bad movies and Sam never _really_ wants to stop him.

“Wait, what year is this from?” Sam asks, then adds for clarity, “just so I know how to correctly picture the cast.”

Clint nods, “That’s a good question, thank you. The film came out in 1994 and it stars Denese Richards, and Paul Walker.”

Talk about a throwback. Sam is sure he’ll regret asking but, “Which one is Tammy and who is the T-Rex?” Clint looks good with all the equipment strapped to him. There’s a little clicky-strap over his chest that Sam could swear is holding the world together. Clint’s got the arms for cave diving. Sam saw him doing the Upstream Salmon once at the company gym. It's one of the reasons Sam likes that Clint is holding the camera so much: he flexes a lot.

“Richards is Tammy and Walker plays the animatronic T-Rex.” Sam really misses goofing off with Clint on screen. He likes that Clint is acting more professional lately, at least since he had to take command of the camera. He would be an excellent producer, Sam thinks, if only he’d unleash his potential. Sam does a full stop in his mind, halts the train and lets it fall from the tracks because: Clint is a person and not a project. Sam is really going to have to write that one down on a sticky note, maybe on a few, and keep them in his wallet, on all of his mirrors and doors and one on his fridge too. His therapist says he’s doing great— she’s really proud of him for taking the divorce and the mourning period one step at a time.

“So it’s a robot or a T-rex or Paul Walker?” Sam asks, knowing the answer will not be simple.

“Yes. All three,” Clint answers, “okay so they’re in love and Paul dies and then his brain gets taken by a mad scientist and put into the robot body of the T-Rex.”

“Bishop, how much longer on that door?” Sam asks. She does not answer him. “So the T-Rex is a robot?”

“Diegetically it is a robot, yes,” Clint confirms, “they couldn’t write a real t-rex in the script, Sam. That would have been ridiculous.”

“Your willing suspension of disbelief threshold is a roller coaster, Barton,” Sam says. The number Sam has always heard was half the length of the relationship is the amount of time it takes to get over someone. The problem is Sam can’t do that math: too many unknown factors. When did he and Maria really start? They dated for almost two years before they were engaged, and enfianced for only nine months before the wedding. Then the time of separation where they weren’t living together but “divorce” hadn’t entered the view yet— around the time Sam started to throw himself into his work and he saw more of Clint, Peter, and Kate than his own wife. What about the time before the separation when Sam had felt like maybe they weren’t going to make it? The amount of times that he and Maria tried to force it to work, both of them too stubborn and invested in the other to “fail” at the relationship. Emotional timelines are too complex to put a number on but if he went with where his heart was, at that exact moment, he was disappointed it didn’t work out with Maria, but happy they’d known each other.

“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Clint asks, impassioned and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s really excited about something and Sam doesn’t think it’s forcing him to watch another C-list gore fest. “That some mad scientist would take a young man’s brain, put it in a dinosaur, and then that dinosaur would go to the ends of the earth for someone it loved.”

Work had become even more of a focus in Sam’s life and, by extension, Clint quickly became the person Sam spoke with the most across all platforms. They had a different thread going in multiple communication apps, along with a group work chat and a nsfw group chat that, both times, consisted of just the two of them. Messages where they were involved with other people were almost countless considering how much of the show needed to be outsourced to other content laborers.

“What’s so hard about-?” Sam begins and then switches it up, “I don’t know, man, how about actual science? That’s not how brains, organs, bodies, or robots work.” On top of those virtual places, Sam and Clint were also around each other physically forty to sixty hours a week depending on production schedules. More towards the sixty end of the spectrum since Parker left. Clint and work should have been synonymous for Sam, like it was for Peter, Trish, or Kate. But it was distinctly different in a way that Sam couldn’t deny anymore. There was work, which had Clint, and there was his phone apps, which also had Clint, and there were so many other ways to move Clint deeper into his life. Sam wasn’t exactly stopping that from happening— the more time he could spend with Clint the better. He let Clint slip into almost every aspect of his life. Sam felt like he’d flooded his home but refused to have it fixed. A landlord reference— Sam couldn’t think anything that didn’t eventually spill Clint into it.

“If you want to enjoy yourself,” Clint advises, “then you’re going to have to let science go for this one.” Sam is a “fixer— his therapist’s word not his but it’s still accurate— just like Maria is. But people aren’t like houses or New York apartments— they shouldn’t be rebuilt by outsiders. His therapist has a lot of metaphors that really tie the idea into Sam, help him explain it to others should it come up, but the fact is it’s a relatively simple formula: Clint is a disaster and Sam _can change him_.

“Sam,” Kate calls to him, he looks over to see if she’s finished with the lock but finds her crouched with a bobby pin held between her lips as she looks up something on her phone, “Ask him about the break in the story.” He wishes he could go to therapy with Clint— like a couple’s therapy but for coworkers who are projecting their divorce and life crisis onto the other and just need some outside guidance and cooperation to remain appropriate.

Sam registers what Kate has said and rushes to ask Clint, resisting the urge to shake him by those large arms that can definitely carry Sam or by that clicky strap that is slowly becoming Sam’s personal hero. “There’s been a break in the story?”

“Yes,” Clint jumps too, with a similar kind of excitement— eager to answer the question as Sam was to ask it, “you’re not gonna believe this. Rogers is a liar,” Sam’s eyes go wide— was Clint _seriously_ when he said Rogers hides the bodies in the Lighthouse? “There is a dinosaur. It’s real and I think we can get some footage of it once Kate gets us inside.”

Sam knows it must be awkward for Clint, watching Sam stand there and stare at him while he tries to register what dinosaur Clint is talking about. He does, pretty quickly, but he still can’t bring himself to say anything. There is a dinosaur? Clint wants to go with the cryptid story and not the decades of unsolved missing persons cases?

“Why did he lie?” Sam asks, it seems like the most harmless of all his questions right now.

“He doesn’t like reporters,” Clint replies, he’s so excited. Sam wishes he wasn’t so excited about this. He must show it on his face because Clint’s delight flickers and deflates him. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought we agreed,” Sam glances at Kate, he’s not sure they should have this conversation in front of her, “that we were going to go with the other story.”

“That was when it was a hoax,” Clint rolls his shoulders like there’s tension not building but climbing up him and nesting, “but it’s not a hoax. This is the story we were assigned. I assumed we’d make that a priority.”

“But this other one, it’s more interesting,” Sam gets confirmation that Kate _is_ listening because she snorts like that’s really funny. “It’s more our speed,” Sam amends because Kate’s snort was correct. There are very few things more interesting than a real live dinosaur in this century.

Clint looks down at his feet and the little flashlight on his head follows the trajectory. Sam tries to still himself, keep calm, there’s a disappointment and frustration rolling off of Clint that makes Sam’s stomach turn. They’ve never had a fight before. Sam doesn’t want to fight. Sam holds his breath until Clint’s headlight shines up at him again.

“It’s more your speed, you mean,” Clint says, and it feels so mean even though the words are so mundane.

“How can you be so sure this dinosaur thing even holds water?” Sam asks, it’s an important distinction: one story is real and the other has “jape” written all over it. One story is going to get them on My Favorite Murder and the other is just going to get them interviewing Alien Jesus Conspirators for the rest of their careers.

Clint keeps closing his eyes or otherwise looking away from Sam. It’s making this conversation so much harder for them to have. When Clint settles his gaze back on Sam he’s much calmer— those few seconds of breathing and silence have done the trick. But then Clint says, “We can do both stories. I’ll focus on the stupid clickbait world wonder and you do what you have to do.”

“Hey,” Sam says, clenching his fists and standing up taller, “what’s gotten into you? I’m trying to talk to you-”

“Why?” Clint asks, throwing his arms up in frustration, “why have a conversation when we already know how it ends?”

“You got a crystal ball?” Sam asks, mock looking around the beach for said crystal ball before continuing, “I don’t know how this conversation ends. Enlighten me.”

Clint’s jaw flexes and Sam can see how Clint’s breathing hitches as he tries not to cry. “I know this job isn't important to you,” He says and that’s a punch in the gut that Sam didn’t see coming, “but it is to me so: can I please just have some priority?”

“What did you say?” Sam narrows his eyes and steps closer to Clint. “Did you say this isn't important to me?” Clint looks away but Sam isn’t having it he follows where Clint’s head moves and stays in his vision. Clint needs to understand this. “You think I would be out here like this, with you, if it wasn't important to me? You think I’m doing this because I love working for Walker?”

“I didn't mean it like that,” Clint says, ashamed and still having trouble looking at Sam but no longer trying to look away.

“What else could it mean?” It feels colder on the beach than it did a minute ago and even though they’re standing closer Sam feels so far away from Clint. From his friend— his partner.

“I know this,” Clint gestures around them, “the story, the work, being a journalist. I know that’s important to you. I know this disappearance thing and,” Sam knows that Clint was going to mention Eddie and The Daily Bugle, he can see it trip on Clint’s tongue but it’s never said. Clint continues, “I know that's important. I just meant this: the job, me, the damn dinosaur.”

“This is our show,” Sam doesn’t think that’s fair at all. “We do this together. Doing this job with you is important too.”

“No, it isn’t,” Clint sounds so sure, so resigned, he really has had this conversation before; so many times in his own head, with the idea of Sam instead of the man himself. Clint is convinced it’s real. “I know this job is just a stepping stone for you. You're not gonna be working for _It’s Patsy_ your whole life.” That hurts almost as much as it flatters Sam. Clint believes that, knows it deeply, believes _in_ Sam. What’s worse is he isn’t wrong: Sam doesn’t want to do this show his whole life. This job is just a stepping stone for him. He had assumed, like Clint, that they’d be stepping together. Sam isn’t sure where he got that idea— it just felt like the natural thing. But now that he thinks about it Sam has had that conversation too, a million times in his head to the idea of Clint. They never actually discussed it. “You just need one big story, this big story, and you can get hired at any serious news outlet you want.”

“It's not that I don't want that,” Sam admits. He doesn’t hear the bobby pin in the lock anymore but he can’t remember why they needed to get inside anyway. Something delicate is dissolving before Sam’s eyes and he doesn’t want to see it go.

“It's okay,” Clint smiles and he _means_ it which makes it worse. “I'm gonna miss you, is all. This could be our last story together.”

“I don't want it to be our last story,” Sam says, pleads with Clint as if either of them could really stop such a thing anyway.

“Me neither,” Clint sniffles loudly and wipes at his eyes. He hasn’t really cried yet. Sam touches his face to see if maybe he’s crying but his fingers come back dry. He feels frozen in the moment— unable to cry because what’s happening is too horrible to accept. “But I don't know what to do about that.”

Kate steps up behind Clint and touches his shoulder gently to get his attention. He jumps, startled by her— Sam had forgotten there were other people in the world for a moment. “Door’s open,” She says, voice small and hands quick to translate. She looks sheepish like a child catching her parents fighting.

Clint signs a thank you to her before picking up his equipment and hoisting it onto his shoulders. “I’m gonna do the story I was paid to do,” he says before turning to walk into the lighthouse.

Sam doesn’t let him, he rushes at Clint and takes hold of the harness strap on his back. The clicky strap in front holds and Sam is able to pull the larger man back and out of the entrance. Sam stops him from going any further. Clint pauses, shifts against Sam’s grip a few times in an attempt to turn around. Once Sam puts this together, at least accepts that Clint isn’t going to run away, he lets go. Clint spins around and looks at Sam, questioning. “I didn’t get to say anything,” Sam says, hurt and now ready to cry right along with his co-host, “we’re not done talking because you didn’t let me say anything.”

Clint’s mouth drops open and he guppies his jaw a few times before he closes it up and nods. He comes out of the lighthouse doorway and walks the few paces that Sam leads him.

Sam gestures into the lighthouse and orders Kate, “Go on up and get the bearings. Be ready to film if anything happens.” She looks between them, interested but still uncomfortable watching them argue, before saluting and picking up her equipment, strapping it around her waist, and going into the lighthouse. The door swings shut behind her and Sam feels less anxious now that they’re alone.

Sam had a lot of things to say before this exact moment and unfortunately he can’t remember any of them. Clint doesn’t rush him, he doesn’t do any prompting, he just watches Sam closely, ready to know what Sam so desperately had to say.

Even though he doesn’t feel rushed by Clint Sam does feel like he needs to say literally anything or he’ll collapse from embarrassment. This, unfortunately, makes him say, “I want to go all the way with you.”

Clint’s eyes go wide and his face is redder than Sam has ever seen it. “What?” Clint shouts, most likely louder than he meant to, but Sam doesn’t blame him.

“Career wise,” Sam insists, “we work well together. I want to work well with you for a long time. I wasn’t going to go anywhere without taking you with me.”

“But,” Clint says, it’s more of a question, incomplete and followed by a long pause before Clint finally says, “we’ve only worked together for three years. You want to spend your whole career with me?”

“When someone’s right for you,” Sam swallows, his throat and mouth too dry all of a sudden, “you just know.”

Clint smiles— it’s a beautiful and infectious thing. It’s a very warm and important moment that Sam would love to appreciate.

Unfortunately, Kate begins to bang on the lighthouse door, shouting and yelling that she can’t open it. It kills the mood.

*

Steve realizes he should have learned to swim by now, considering everything that had happened in his life, all the experiences he had coming to this point, there were multiple signs telling him that he should learn to swim. And yet, Captain Steve Rogers had ignored them all like the stubborn jackass he had always been. When the ice cold salt of the water hits him Steve curses his own hubris; he should have at least learned to float properly. The waves on the rocks outside of Bex’s cave spin him under and he can’t tell top from bottom when the salty blue consumes his vision.

He can’t break the surface because he can’t find it. Up and down feel the same under the cold waves. His heart will finally be able to sink him into the depths and if Steve was not fighting for his life he’d give himself a moment to appreciate the irony. Bucky has returned to him and now Steve will be lost in the sea.

He’s not alone. He thought that he would be alone when he died, that had seemed like the poetic purpose of Steve’s knowing loneliness. So that he could die alone and know it in such a way that most people and animals rarely do. It will be worse, Steve thinks, if he knows there was someone with him when he died but he couldn’t reach them.

Bex reaches him. A force so strong and large under the water that Steve feels the current shift to accommodate her. Steve has stopped flailing, has stopped trying to direct himself to dry land, because when he sees her, clear as he did the night before, he figures she’s going to devour him. Even if he couldn't see and be reminded of her rows of teeth meant for ripping men like Steve into bits. She doesn’t use her teeth. She dips her head low, dives beneath him and swims down. At first, Steve thinks she’s running from him but then she comes back up, swift and strong like a cannon, the force of her pushing the water around Steve and propelling him upwards a good ways before she even reaches him. She does not open her mouth, does not share her teeth with his limbs. It’s more like she collects Steve on her way to the top of the water. He grapples for her, ends up grabbing and holding tight to scales under feathers that feel sharp and wild. He holds on until they breach the surface, until Bex rises into the air and Steve thinks she must be a wonderful sight: a towering beast breaking the water to jump across the moon like a whale. There’s something about her that reminds Steve of Orcas, a creature so smart and too trusting, their hearts a crop ripe for the taking by the greed of the world.

She swims to the shore, walks a few giant steps onto it and deposits Steve off of her face and onto the safety of dry land. Steve notes that she doesn’t have fins or any of the body parts he would expect on an underwater dinosaur. She has claws and feet that she walks on, her long tail acting as both propeller and rudder. He lays on the sandy shore for a long while, just staring at her and realizing with each new detail a heartbreaking truth: she knows him. There’s the beating of her heart, large as it is now in this body, the rhythm a twin to the one Steve has memorized. He can hear it this close to her— he feels like he’s melting into the sand, sinking low where the tide edges further.

“Bex,” Steve says, and she nods. He reaches out to touch her, she might be like Bucky, unable to remember everything, gaps in places and inconsistencies. “What did they do to you?” Steve feels like he’s sitting in clay— soon he’ll be a mound ready to mold into something primal and lost. Whatever Peirce needs him for. Maybe he and Bucky will be a matching set.

His hand reaches out to touch her, after Steve wrestles it free from the mud of the beach, but she pulls away. Walks backwards, scrambling, like his touch is something she should fear. He pushes it, stands and tries to follow her but she is huge and fast: she dives back into the water. At first he wants to follow her. He even starts pulling himself out of the mud, ready to start running but she’s fast, and frightened, and Steve couldn’t even catch her on a good day. He needs to bring her back. He looks around and notes that they’re a good four miles from the lighthouse in one direction or the other. Her tail is the last thing he sees of her before she completely submerges.

Maybe back to her cave, or maybe back into the deep where the pressure can embrace her. He needs to help her. He runs up the beach and looks for disturbances on the water. She can’t be hard to find and he can’t lose her again. Bucky can’t lose her again. There’s so much loss in his heart he feels it thick and slow, beating like molasses, trying to pump blood into him. Steve screams her name, the sacred one Bucky gave her, and runs along the shore calling for her to come back.

She must be out here. He’s not alone— Steve _knows_ he’s not alone on this beach and he’ll find her if he has to climb the lighthouse to do it. He screams her name again, or tries to, the word dies half way out of his constricted throat.

“Captain,” Someone calls and first Steve scans the water, the rocks, the place where the cave mouth sits miles down but he doesn’t see Bex and he doesn’t see the person who hailed him. Steve turns to dryland, the stretch to town far off in the distance, and finds Bucky waving to Steve and approaching him quickly. Steve doesn’t know what to do because he’s had a very confusing and terrifying fifteen minutes so he stays still and waits for Bucky to catch up to him.

Bucky should be on his way over to chastise Steve for attacking his father. Instead he looks delighted to see Steve. Maybe even thrilled. It kicks Steve in a sore spot behind his ribs.

“You okay there, Captain?” Bucky asks, gentle and kind, his voice ticking up at the end in pleasure. To see Steve? Steve blinks and suddenly he’s the one searching in the dark, stammering over words and excuses for an accusation Bucky hasn’t dropped yet.

“Did you see her?” Steve asks but the look on Bucky’s face confirms for Steve that he didn’t.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Bucky steps towards him and Steve doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, just lets Bucky’s hand find him in the dark and touch him.

“I’m fine,” Steve answers, finally able to speak now that he has solid confirmation of Bucky’s not yelling at him. “Sorry. I must have zoned out for a minute.” Steve wipes his muddy hands off on his soaking wet coat.

Bucky smiles. “Just some normal, fully-clothed, night swimming, then?” He doesn’t take his hand off of Steve’s shoulder— he grips it a little harder, even, and presses his thumb into the soft flesh just under the collar bone. Steve is remembering, while Bucky flutters his eyelashes, exactly what Bucky’s face looks like when he wants a kiss. “Bedroom eyes” Becca had used to call it. It’s muscle memory that drives Steve’s body forward and sheer dumb luck that the squelching of his wet shoes breaks him from his trance. He stops it before he kisses— as far as Bucky knows— a stranger. Bucky looks disappointed but he doesn’t say anything.

Steve shrugs his shoulders. That conclusion is at least more believable than whatever he just witnessed. “Did you see my niece?” Bucky asks, dropping his hand from Steve’s shoulder and flinging the salt water off of it. He takes a couple of steps back from Steve— he must smell like seaweed. “Purple hair. About yea big?” Bucky puts his hand at his shoulder and then lowers it only to bring it up higher again. He gives up on the height approximation and just shrugs at Steve. “Purple hair anyway, can’t miss her.”

“I haven’t seen her,” Steve says, shrugging, “I haven’t seen anyone all night.” He feels torn between helping Bucky, staying near Bucky, and finding Bex. There was something human inside of her, a part that is Rebecca that Steve can reason with— he thinks.

“She was with that kid at the diner. The one who smacked his head on the window,” Bucky provides helpfully. Steve tries not to laugh _too_ hard out of respect for the poor kid.

Steve nods, “Ah, Chase Stein. He’s probably taken her out to see the sights.” The indecision makes Steve feel restless, more so than he already is from his ordeal— from the last twenty-four hours alone really.

“This town has sights?” Bucky chuckles, incredulous but smiling, not unhappy to be talking to Steve which is a plus. Steve can’t leave Bucky— he needs to stay near him this time. Bex will have to wait. Unless Steve is able to steer Bucky and Bex to each other— that could at least compile his “missing person” problem.

“If you know where to look,” Steve could stop his body from kissing Bucky but nothing stops him from _looking_ at Bucky. Bucky’s tongue licks the bottom of his lip before pulling it into his mouth and under his teeth. He’s still batting his eyelashes— that’s an issue. It’s an issue while Steve reeks of sea water and Bucky doesn’t know who he is.

“I’ll bet you know all the best spots,” It sounds like an invitation but Steve ignores it— not willing to risk misinterpreting a signal but also not sure where they would go if things escalated anyway. The idea of trying to trigger Bucky’s memory with his cock is a fun fantasy but has no practical chance of working.

“I can take you after them,” Steve suggests, “there’s only a few places the kids hang out.”

“The kids,” Bucky chuckles, “yeah, actually. That would be great. My sister is losing her mind. Wants Gert home right away. Before our dad gets back.”

“Where’s your dad?” Steve looks around for him just to make sure Alexander hasn’t been summoned to them just from being mentioned. But then the devil’s name would need to be said two more times at least.

Bucky opens his mouth to answer and then shuts it again. He looks behind him, back at the quiet and sleepy town of McDunn and then looks at Steve again, “Sorry I’m not sure. He didn’t want any of us to leave but now four of us are out.”

“Best laid plans,” Steve has no remorse that Alexander’s prisoners are able to escape his hold, at least geographically. He has no doubt that those girls are better off wherever they are with a good kid like Chase to look out for them. Steve needs to do the same now, for Bucky. Keep him away from Alexander and this family he’s installed him into. “We should try my cottage first,”Steve recommends and offers his arm to Bucky, “so I can change into some dry clothes.” He means it as a joke, not just the clothes bit but also the offering of his arm. He figures it’s an _obvious_ joke because why would Bucky touch him when he’s sopping wet, covered in sand, and shivering like this. And Bucky _does_ laugh at the joke but then he also _takes Steve’s arm_ and presses his warm body into Steve’s side. Great, Steve grits his teeth and tries to control his shivering but it’s no use— he’s going to die of pneumonia after all.

Bucky pulls Steve along, heading in the correct direction of Steve’s house and not even realizing that he’s leading Steve instead of the other way around. Bucky feels so warm— Steve has always run cold, he liked pressing his freezing feet into Bucky’s in bed and laughing when Bucky jumped at the cold. Bucky would pin himself against Steve and curl his warmth around him. Steve used to say, “You’re like a little furnace.”

“What made you take a dive?” Bucky asks.

“I fell in,” Steve says, truthfully, because he wants to keep the lies he tells Bucky to a minimum. Finding ways to circle around the truth without giving Bucky another nose bleed or maybe something worse. Although Steve has no idea how Bucky will react to seeing his twin sister who he doesn’t remember and died eight years ago anyway and is now, apparently, trapped in the body of a dinosaur. “And I can’t swim,” Steve adds, sensing that Bucky requires just a little more explanation.

“Wow,” Bucky gasps, looking at Steve in concern, “Are you okay? You could have died.”

“I almost did,” Steve agrees, the lighthouse comes into view, still a long ways off in the distance but no longer a spec of a line in the background. The closer they get the more it takes form and shapes itself into the beacon Steve should be guarding right now anyway.

He should be at the lighthouse, but this is more important. This is the only ship Steve can guide through the fog and the dark. It’s the only one that matters. Bucky is here and he’s more important than the ships that never sail to McDunn anyway.

“Should you go to a doctor or something? I feel like I shouldn’t be walking you around town if you almost _died_ a few minutes ago.”

“It was longer than a few minutes,” Steve hoped that this would reassure Bucky but it clearly doesn’t as his brow furrows deeper and he looks very upset with Steve for putting himself in harm’s way. Too much and not enough like old times.

“How far is your place?” Bucky asks, looking around them to see if he can spot another dot in the distance, one beyond the lighthouse but they aren’t close enough to see it yet. They’ll have to pass the light house a ways and then the docks, before they go up the hill to his cottage.

Steve isn’t trying to be, but he’s desperate to get Bucky back to the cottage, Steve’s cottage, _their_ cottage, and see if anything rattles loose. At least he has a first aid kit there to handle things if Bucky has a bad reaction to memory again.

“About another twenty minutes we should be there. Is that okay?” Steve asks and Bucky pulls his arm out of Steve’s and checks his watch which he actually isn’t wearing. Steve tells him, “It’ll be around nine when we get there.”

“How long will finding my nieces take?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t loop his arm into Steve’s again. He just matches his pace and walks in step but he doesn’t touch Steve. It feels so wrong not to be touched by Bucky.

“Depends on where they are,” Steve replies, “but there are only so many places in town. Long end it’ll be another hour.” Steve watches Bucky’s face as he talks about the two girls. For whatever fake things they’ve put into Bucky’s head, whatever tenderness they scrapped out, the affection he feels for the girls is genuine.

Bucky shifts his shoulders, moving his body like the bones don’t fit and he needs to move them into their proper place. “I’m sure they’re fine,” Steve insists but Bucky still doesn’t look comforted.

“I get this feeling like something really bad is going to happen to them,” Bucky says, putting his hand on his stomach to settle whatever nauseating feeling has risen up there. “But maybe that’s just my nerves. Nothing _too_ bad can really happen to them here, right?”

Steve can’t lie to him but the truth isn’t going to make him feel any better and Steve needs Bucky to be calm. “They’re as safe anywhere in town as they are at your home.”

Bucky smiles, properly comforted by that. It’s a beautiful moment that Steve ruins when he remembers that he left three strangers in his cottage a few hours ago. That’s a problem he had planned to deal with later— very much later. After Bucky had come back to his senses later but it becomes obvious to Steve that he’ll have to deal with that issue when they get to the cottage. That could be bad— should Steve try to take him somewhere else?

But Steve’s shoes are still squelching and Bex is out here somewhere. He will simply have to deal with the crisis when they get back to the cottage.

Or sooner. Considering they come up on the lighthouse, close enough now that Steve can see two familiar figures banging on the door of the lighthouse. At least, Steve thinks as they come into view, he won’t have to deal with them at the cottage. Although Steve isn’t sure how to deal with them now either.

“Shit,” Steve curses when the reporter turns, spies both Steve and Bucky, and brings it to his camera man’s attention.

“What’s up?” Bucky asks, looking from the men at the door to Steve and back a few times.

“We’re going to be delayed,” Steve admits, taking in a deep breath and pressing forward towards the two reporters. He might as well see why they’re banging on his lighthouse door anyway.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely wife parfaitdiem for the Spanish translations!

Chapter Six:

Sam is calm— he _seems_ calm, compared to Clint who knows his banging on the door, rattling it, trying to force it open, is more like panicking. At least panicking feels marginally productive even if the door hasn’t yielded to his demands yet.

Sam has always been better at remaining calm than Clint has. Most television people have some kind of acting or at least improv skill that they often turn to in times like this; a persona that is calm and professional. Clint does not have that. One of the first stories they did together involved heavy interaction with an American alligator and crocodiles. Sam had been calm then and charming on camera. Sam even volunteered to hold the jaws shut of one whereas Clint refused to get close enough to watch. Clint’s stomach had been twisted inside of him and the man they were interviewing didn’t help any by explaining, in gory detail, what a “death roll” was.

Clint’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s the only thing that gets him to lay off of the door. He takes a few steps back from the door while he fumbles with the device. Clint appreciates that Sam is doing a pretty good job of not freaking out about their intern, the last one they have now, being locked in a potential den of true crime horror. Sam is brave enough to look down into the jaws of death and dare to hold them closed. Clint had been frozen in place, only able to think of the movie Lake Placid.

The first text Kate sends to Clint is: _I’m safe. I’m fine. Stop knocking on the door._ Sam is still jiggling the knob after Clint has pulled away and opened his phone. Clint pulls on Sam’s shirt to get his attention and then shows him the text from Kate. She’s okay, there’s no active danger, Clint can chill out at any point. Clint puts his hand on his chest and takes several deep breaths until he can feel the beat slowing down— until he can move that panic out of himself.

“We’re gonna get you out of there,” Sam says, when he speaks again. When Sam wants to calm down he always takes in three deep breaths, holding them for a count of eight and letting them out slowly. When these breathing exercises are done, Sam opens his eyes and looks Clint dead in the eye. He’s a born leader, quick on his feet and steady in the face of death. Clint feels little calmer just being near Sam.

It’s just an empty lighthouse after all. The possible homicidal murderer isn't even here right now. It would be one thing if she were trapped in there with Steve Rogers, or some equally shifty dude, or woman, but she’s not. In Florida, Clint couldn’t see a log in the water without jumping out of his skin and so Sam sent Parker out to buy a cattle prod for Clint to use on suspicious logs. Clint didn’t use it on anything but holding it made him feel safer.

Sam turns his attention to the lock on the door— he sees something he doesn’t like. Sam’s arms go up in the air, he steps out of Clint’s line of sight to the doorknob, and he gestures at where an awkwardly shaped metal tool is bent and broken off in the lock. Clint tries _so hard_ not to laugh. It’s a very serious situation after all. A dangerous situation, even, but it makes Clint laugh anyway. Sometimes a laugh comes uninvited, when the body doesn’t know how else to feel, a light shined into a dark room to keep moths from chewing the curtains. Something bright and difficult to look away from— for however inappropriate it is, it seems to comfort Sam who smiles at Clint. That’s good enough then, Clint thinks, if his laughing made at least one of them feel better.

“Kate, I thought you knew how to pick locks,” Sam says. He stays facing Clint while he talks to Kate through the door. “You were using a bobby pin. Where did you even get— what is this?” 

Kate replies, and whatever she says is frustrating enough to make Sam press the heel of his palms into his eyes and sigh. When he pulls his hands away and looks at Clint he says, “She says that the bobby pin wasn’t working, so she did the next best thing she could think of: she shoved a rake pick into the lock and forced it over.” There is a long beat that follows that is too long to not be judgemental— Kate can probably sense it from behind the door.

Alligators are much slower on land than they are in the water but they are still _fast_. Enough to catch a running human. Unlike bears or sharks, an alligator is a predator that can’t be reasoned with. They eat what they want and there’s no playing dead or kicking them in the gills to change their course. Those mighty jaws wrap around prey and spin until all the bones break.

Kate is being impressively chill about the situation— but then she is the one that ended up jamming the lock with that unrehearsed lock picking trick. Where did she even get that idea? Did he tell her to do it? Clint wipes both of his hands down the front of his face, pulling the skin down — he can’t remember who had the lock picking idea, but Clint is worried it was him. Or at least that he should have been the one to tell Kate “no, that’s a bad idea”. They should have just gotten a key from the city tomorrow or something— but it felt like they hadn’t had the time to think. Once he had intel that the dinosaur was _real_ , that the story they were assigned to might actually be legitimate, Clint had felt like there was no time to plan. Clint had rushed to the lighthouse without thinking past anything that wasn’t focused on getting quality footage of The Beast of McDunn. He hadn’t bothered with a plan of action. Unless, that plan of action had just been “hurry up, we don’t want to miss it”.

Clint’s phone buzzes in his hand and he looks down to read Kate’s new message: _I’m going uptop to look around_. Clint refocuses on his phone, on Kate’s message that says, without saying it, that she really needs him to keep it together right now. His fingers moving frantically over the keys— Sam’s always complimenting Clint’s swift texting skills. Sam must be watching Clint or has been for a couple minutes because he taps Clint on the shoulder to get his eyes on Sam and off of his phone. Sam asks again, “What’s she say? Is she okay?”

“She says she’s going up,” Clint answers, gazing up at the towering building next to them before checking the phone for Kate’s newest text and then focusing on Sam again. “She’s gonna look around.”

“By herself?” Sam looks up at the top of the lighthouse too. Like with the furniture, he moves his hands and eyes over the space, trying to see if there’s an angle or certain distance away that they can get to the lighthouse in order to see Kate at the top through the windows. It’s a valiant effort at problem solving but Clint thinks they would at least need binoculars. 

“Maybe I should go back to the cottage,” Sam recommends, “in case Rogers is there and he can help.”

There’s a panic rising in Clint as he tries to think of how they’re going to fix this. Obviously Kate won’t stay up there forever, she won’t die up there, but considering the current circumstances, he isn’t sure how to get her out.

“You think we could climb it?” Clint offers and steps back while he mentally tries to climb the lighthouse in his mind. “Not that I brought a grappling hook,” Clint sighs, hoping the joke will at least pull his own mindback into the crisis at hand. Clint is still gazing up at the windows of the lighthouse, still trying to sort out how and if they really could climb up and “rescue” Kate. He looks down at Sam and finds he’s staring with hyper focus right at Clint’s backpack strap— the one that pulls a little too tight across his chest. Clint looks down at it trying to figure if there’s something wrong that Sam is staring at or if he’s just blankly looking ahead while his mind works to find a solution.

“There’s got to be another way in,” Sam says, suddenly and he looks up at Clint’s face and away from the strap. Clint takes a few more steps away from the lighthouse so he can look around the other side— he ends up walking the circumference around it, hand reaching out to feel along the old stone— the pads of his fingers itching to find a structural weakness to exploit. Alas, he comes around to Sam’s back and taps him until he turns around. 

When Clint has eyes and the headlamp light pointed on Sam again, Sam says, “Rogers surely has to get in here during an emergency. Or maybe the city has something,” Sam trails off towards the end and turns back around. Clint follows Sam’s gaze and sees the devil captain himself walking up the beach.

Clint can see him sharply in the distance, one of two figures, walking towards them and gaining details and height. Clint lifts the camera and peers in through the lense, cutting in to focus on the two men.

He could swear he feels the ground rumbling with movement like thunder pulses in a storm. 

Sam tugs at Clint’s shirt until he stops looking through the eyepiece and turns to Sam. “What are they saying?” Sam asks. Clint looks back in through the camera immediately— like he was really _not_ going to lip read and then _not_ share the information with Sam.

The two come into hearing range— at least that’s what Clint assumes from the way Sam places his hand on Clint’s hip and gives him a small squeeze to stop him talking. Clint stops translating their conversation— they hadn’t said much anyway. Clint, feeling funny, actually starts waving, which is at least entertaining enough to Sam to get him to slap Clint on the bicep— there’s this particular way in which Sam touches him when he’s laughing at something Clint’s done.

Sam gets serious once their two approaching companions are close enough that Clint has to put the camera down— he sets it on his boot so he doesn’t risk getting sand in it. Clint doesn’t stop waving and he keeps looking over at Sam to see if he’s made him laugh yet. The laugh lines are pulling at Sam’s face, but he holds the serious reporter face together. Clint is prepared to stop waving once it isn’t funny anymore but then whoever is walking with Rogers waves back. Clint’s enthusiasm renews, and he starts laughing again.

Sam and Steve must look a sight, both of them serious and focused, not betraying any emotion, while their two companions wave at each other too enthusiastically and for too long. The juxtaposition must be funny to someone— Clint hopes that Kate can see it and she’s at least having a laugh.

They wave at each other all the way until they come within about a yards distance and they both, naturally, drop their hands.

Clint’s phone buzzes and he checks quickly to see what Kate has to say. She says he looks like a dork. Before he can roll his eyes and put his phone back she sends in a second message, “If Patsy fires me, I have another job lined up -- just get me out of here.” He’s not quite sure what that means.

Alligators and crocodiles are from the same scientific order— they only overlap in one place in the entire world and he and Sam had to spend over a week and a half in Florida doing a story on the two predators. It involved both of them being in the water with the creatures themselves, the goal to get footage of them interacting. Even tigers are afraid of alligators, scared to drink from the same water the beasts inhabit because they can be dragged down and killed. Sometimes it’s the drowning but other times it’s the pressure of being dragged too deep too quickly.

When Clint looks back at their party, he sees Steve and Sam in the middle of a tense conversation building to an argument. 

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, probably accusing from the way it makes Sam’s jaw muscle tense like he’s grinding his teeth. Sam is really just _not_ in the mood for that right now. But he’s staying professional because that’s who Sam Wilson _is_. It’s why people _love_ Sam Wilson. Sam keeps it together, he does the right thing, and he doesn’t stop until it’s done. Sam remembers that Kate is trapped in the lighthouse because they were literally breaking into it. Clint hadn’t thought of that— at least not in the past few minutes since the door shut on her. They’ve done a couple of shady things before in the name of a story but this would be the first time it went belly up in such a way that they could get into real legal trouble if Rogers wanted.

Damn it, Clint curses at himself, he hasn’t had time to think clearly. He was just having a vulnerable and open conversation with Sam before Kate got locked in. Shifting his brain into crisis mode is a lot harder than he anticipated. What a mess his entire life is. Thank whatever benevolent all powerful being put Sam in his life because when Sam is calm and steady Clint finds he can do it too. Sam’s such a natural leader that way— a Captain in his own right and one Clint would trust more than Rogers. Not that it’s a competition. Because Sam would win hands down and it’s not true or fair to call that a “competition”.

“Our intern,” Clint steps in because it’s his brash dumbassery that got them into this mess and he owes Sam talking them out of it, “it’s my fault,” Clint recalibrates quickly— Kate’s text makes more sense now but just because Kate is willing to take the blame for them doesn't mean Clint is okay with it. “I was acting completely on my own and without the encouragement or permission of Trish Talk Inc. or those representing the website’s journalism factor.” 

Sam’s eyebrows go up as he looks at Clint, brow furrowing in a question as he tries to figure out why Clint threw himself under the bus even as Kate is the one trapped in the lighthouse. Clint tips up his left shoulder in a shrug and slides his cell phone back into his pants pocket.

It works so far as Steve doesn’t call the cops or try to remove them from the property himself. Not right that second anyway. He just sighs and looks up at the nest of the lighthouse. “I’ve got the keys on me, lucky for your intern,” Steve says, shuffling around in his coat only to bring his hand out, sans keys. “Unless I lost them while swimming.” Rogers does show signs of having been drenched earlier and dried by walking in the night sea air— which is to say not very dried at all and definitely too cold and smelling of salt.

“Have you got spares?” Steve’s date offers. Clint looks this date over, wondering who this guy is, how Rogers knows him, if he’s a potential victim, or accomplice. 

“Spares aren’t going to help,” Sam admits. This will be the part that has Rogers in a rampage, he taps Clint on his bicep and the two of them step apart from each other to reveal they've broken off Kate’s rake pick in the door lock.

Rogers says nothing for roughly sixteen seconds— Clint counts it out on his fingers how long it takes Steve to react— the pads of his fingers touching his thumb as they count out seconds four at a time.

When he finally does react, his body slouches like his wool coat has absorbed too much water and it’s weighing on him now. Rogers seems more exasperated than anything else— not even angry, as he gestures to the broken lock and says, “I don’t even know how you did that.”

“What’s not to know?” Clint asks, head lamp flicking from Steve to his companion to the door and back to Steve. “I wanted in; I had lock picks; I never learned how to use them; I broke the lock. She’s stuck.”

Steve moves forward, marches _at_ Clint so angrily that he has to jump out of his path. Rogers is saying something, his mouth moving as the rest of him does and it’s so over stimulating that Clint doesn’t catch any of it. Too busy trying to get out of Rogers’ way, pick up the camera, not break the camera, not fall on his ass, not bump into Steve’s date— suffice it to say it takes a few moments for him to catch his bearings and join in the conversation again.

Except that Steve’s back is to them now and Clint can’t tell if the small movements of Steve’s body are him speaking or just fiddling with the broken door. Clint gives up on trying to read Rogers and instead turns around, finds Steve’s date there, staring at him and smiling. Steve’s date gives a little up-nod to Clint and his eyes slide down to the camera.

Clint lifts it back onto his shoulder, takes a few steps back to get the guy into frame and then focuses in on the newcomer. “You want to be on TV?” Clint asks.

“Hell yeah,” He says, and even if Clint couldn’t read his lips, it’s written on his face. He lights up and runs his hand through his hair, clearly trying to style it for his close up. Clint adjusts the camera because it does kind of love this guy— he looks like he belongs on Gossip Girl, not a beach in the middle of nowhere.

“What’s your name? How do you know Captain Rogers?” Clint asks— he’s not sure what the story is anymore, Sam’s or his, they didn’t get to talking about that part— they didn’t even get halfway through their conversation at all. So Clint will stick to Rogers as a topic, at least for now, since he’s the common thread in both stories. Clint can do this— he can make this work.

“James,” He says, and winks. This guy is a little _too_ ready to be filmed— but Clint can definitely work with that. If he charms James enough maybe he can keep Rogers from calling the cops— or serial killing them, whatever happens. He could feed them to the dinosaur. Clint likes that option the least.

Sam shifts behind Clint and moves until his back is pressed up against Clint’s. Sam is staying close to Clint for safety and away from Rogers for the same reason. Sam is warm against his back and having him there blocks the cold wind from biting Clint through his shirt— he should have brought a coat.

“So James,” Clint prompts— he’ll focus on big blue doe eyes while Sam keeps an eye on Rogers, “you from around here?” The light from the camera shines directly into James’ face but the guy doesn’t squint or blink. His pupils dilate quickly, and if he experiences any discomfort from the light, he doesn’t show it. It feels like he’s had a light in his face too many times before to be bothered by it anymore.

James opens his mouth and then closes it twice before he finally answers, “My family just moved here. My sister and her kids, anyway.” 

“Why McDunn?” Clint asks. There’s something funny about the way James freezes when he’s asked a question— like his body is stalling him from answering. Not a good liar, which can be a reporter’s dream or nightmare depending on the story.

James finally blinks and follows it up with his reply, “Our father lives here. He has very important work to do. My sister is helping.” Clint zooms the camera in slowly, pulling in close to James’ eyes while trying to keep his lips in the frame. It’s not a good shot for an interview— it’s a terrible one in fact and will definitely be blacked out or played under some stock footage before it leaves the editing room— but Clint needs to see this guy’s eyes. There’s something strange about his eyes— like he’s sleeping with them open. “I’m also helping. I’m an essential asset to the work.”

“What work is that?” Clint asks. Another pause before James answers but this time, with the camera focused hard on those unblinking eyes. Clint sees a blood vessel rise red in the eye, pulse through it, and submerge in less than a blink. It makes Clint jump a little and pull the shot back, back, way back because to look so deeply into James’ eyes is to feel a chill in his spine that even the warmth of Sam still pressed into him can’t ease.

“It’s important,” James says, “it’s very important.” Clint thinks about The Faculty, just then, one of his bad horror movies that Sam actually likes. It’s a good movie, for what it is— a late nineties Invasion of the Body Snatchers but for cool teens. There’s certainly a level of quality to it that is lacking in its peers. Clint tries to take a step back, a step away from James, but hits the solid comfort of Sam still holding close.

James laughs, breaks into a big grin and asks, “Sorry what were we talking about?” The way James looks at him now, the way his mouth moves too quick over the words like he’s said them too often. How his eyes sit perfectly still in his sockets while veins slither in and out of the sclera. How he falters on details and falls into small spirals of words as a result. It gives Clint the same chill as watching The Faculty, or Seedpeople, or even Stepford Wives. A shiver in his spine, as if he’s seeing death and sleep warped into something unnatural and cruel. Sentience without free will.

Clint feels his body freeze up as he tries to make a decision between seeing James as a threat or a victim. He’s with Rogers; he could be either.

Whatever non-successful method Rogers was trying, if he was indeed doing anything more useful than grumbling about a broken lock on his precious lighthouse, he must have given up on because he walks into the camera frame then. He puts a protective hand over James’ shoulder and pulls him a little closer to himself and further from where Clint stands with the camera. It’s as if Rogers thinks Clint is the dangerous one here. Clint feels more at ease seeing that. The cold killer Clint has imagined Rogers to be wouldn’t react with such tenderness to this guy— he probably wouldn’t see Clint or Sam as a threat to his companion’s safety either.

Clint remembers that Rogers hasn’t been proven to be anything other than a grumpy old man trapped in a young man’s body. Clint also remembers Kate, and how she really needs to be set free and not arrested or fired. Clint’s a journalist— he’s going to get a story. The chill in his spine remains but the rest of him settles, and relaxes back into interview mode. If Sam can be calm then he can be calm. James isn’t attacking him, James hasn’t threatened him, there’s no danger here. Not yet. Clint doesn’t know if Rogers is a log or an alligator— Clint looking at his eyes and waiting for them to blink.

“How do you know Captain Rogers?” Clint asks and James’ face lights up, becomes warm and real again— no recited body language to display. For whatever reason mentioning Rogers makes James less robotic and more human.

Before James can answer Rogers faces the camera and his lips move with an aggressive urgency, “I have tools on my boat. We’ll have to remove the hinges and open the door that way,” Rogers explains. Clint relaxes— they’ll have Kate out soon, she’s going to be fine. But then why does Clint still feel the electricity of a storm in the air— even with clear skies and stars glittering unhindered on a backdrop of dark indigo.

“So you do have a boat?” James asks, “you should take me out on it sometime.” If someone said that to Clint he’d be pretty flattered. “Maybe you could teach me how to steer it?”

Steve shifts and Clint clocks the movement as being bashful. “I actually never go out on it anymore.” Sam moves from being pressed behind Clint to next to him, then steps ever so slowly towards the frame of the camera, ready to pounce into an interview at the first opportunity. “It’s not any fun without—” Clint knows that the word is “you” but Rogers must have not actually said that one out loud because James offers up a different set of finishing words.

“Your fella?” Rogers gives a solemn nod. “That’s a real shame,” James says, and the way his eyelids slide down as he speaks, and the way his tongue punctuate the sentence, Clint can tell it’s too sexual for the moment. “You know, I’ll bet if he were here,” James puts his hand on Rogers’ shoulder and gives him a supportive squeeze, something gentle and consoling before he says, “he’d want you to fuck my brains out on that boat.”

Clint almost drops the camera because he snorts so loud— even Sam seems to lose a little bit of balance after James says it. The only one who doesn’t react favorably is Steve. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes in a long, deep breath. Clint notes the way Rogers chest expands, pulling in breath to yell like Rogers is about to snap off or something, Clint aims the camera at him— but Steve shocks all three of them when he just starts laughing.

It starts as a small thing, just a few breathy scoffs, Rogers’ nostrils flare in quick succession and there’s no tremor to his shoulders. Then it settles into Rogers’ shoulders, bringing them up and down, the rest of his body quivering, as the laugh becomes bigger, Rogers’ mouth stretching so wide it must hurt.

James steps out of frame, taking his hand off of Rogers and then right back into frame, reaching out for Rogers but doesn’t touch him. He says one word, a question from the way his eyes glance to Clint and Sam like they have the answer. Clint can feel Sam shake his head. James looks away and steps closer to Rogers, “It wasn’t that funny, was it?” 

Sam taps Clint on the shoulder. Clint plants his feet, makes sure the camera won’t slip down and bring Rogers and James out of frame. Sam signs, “What’s going on?” It’s a phrase that Sam was familiar with after only a few months of working with Clint— it’s one of the few small ones he has learned by osmosis. Sam, who Clint is pretty sure doesn’t know the sign for “no idea”, gives Clint a quizzical look. Clint resorts to old-fashioned body language: throws his free arm up in the air in a half formed shrug while shaking his head and mouthing, “No idea”. Clint’s point comes across, it seems, because Sam heaves a sigh of exhaustion that resonates in his body and Clint relates to that on a molecular level. They really need Kate down here.

Clint looks back through the camera, tilting the frame up just a smidge from where it dropped when Clint shrugged. “Bucky,” Rogers says, his body is still quiver but Clint can’t tell if he’s crying, laughing, or both. Maybe there’s a deeper cut, one with stitches that are pulled out with every convulsion of Steve’s body. “That’s so—Bucky. That’s just like you.”

Bucky, James, or whoever, Clint notes, does not look all that pleased to find out he’s the reason Steve’s doing _whatever_ it is that he’s doing. Clint can feel Sam turning his head to shoot another look at Clint. But Clint needs to keep eyes on the two men pulling against each other like the undertow. Sam probably just wants to let Clint know that, still, Sam has no idea what’s happening— probably also Sam confirms that Clint doesn’t either. Clint appreciates Sam’s update— or maybe the solidarity— but he can only see one thing at a time.

“James,” Bucky says, putting his hand to his chest like he’s addressing a confused child, “I’m James, remember? We met this morning,” James-Bucky-whoever reaches out to touch the elbow of Steve’s sleeve. Steve shakes his head— he’s refusing something with his whole being. Clint understands the way a laugh conquers a situation. Clint thinks if he pressed his hand to Rogers’ chest he could feel the laugh rattle around inside of him like the way a can of spray paint feels when you shake it.

Rogers' lips move but they’re behind his hand. Whatever he’s said, Bucky isn’t pleased with it. Bucky starts to speak— Clint catches, “funny” and “Captain” but not much else. James touches Steve again and the man pulls away and now his back is to the camera. This is incredibly frustrating.

“Could everyone just slow down, like a little? Please? This is a very difficult conversation to follow in these conditions,” Clint asks, begs, attempting to clasp his hands together but finding it difficult with the camera lifted onto his shoulder. Rogers turns back around and glares at Clint— he must have truly forgotten he was there. Rogers is at least facing the camera now and Clint takes a half step back. 

James is _not_ facing the camera, he’s looking out to see now, his face twisted up in an emotion Clint can’t read because _no one will face the fucking camera_. But from this angle Clint can at least tell that Bucky is looking at _something_ out at sea so Clint follows his gaze with the lens. Clint can’t see too well out in the dark so he switches the camera filter to night mode and turns it back to Bucky.

Bucky turns sharply to the camera and asks, eyes scared and darting side to side as he searches the faces around him for something, “Did you hear that?” Clint shakes his head at Bucky in answer but also turns all the way around to look at Sam who will have a more relevant answer to Bucky’s question. Sam shakes his head and answers facing Clint, “There wasn’t a sound. Rogers did you-,” There is a sound then, there must be, because Sam jumps nearly out of his skin and looks back at the lighthouse, glaring at it. James has a similar reaction simultaneously where the sound seems to hurt him, he swings his arm up the bicep covering one ear and his hand wrapping around the top of his hand to clap over his ear on the other side.

Clint spins the camera to look at Rogers, who is staring up at the lighthouse before his gaze falls down and stretches out into the sea.

With the night vision on, and the object closer every second, Clint sees perfectly the Beast of McDunn rushing towards them. Clint has a million questions in his mind all at once but the one that burns in him the hottest is what her eyes look like in close range.

*

A missing person indicates a thing left undone, unsaid, incomplete, forever unfinished because no end is shown. Worse than ending in a question mark. Ending in an ellipses…

Ghosts are the ultimate symbols of unfinished business. If the police would give them a body to bury, or some tangible ending to Billy’s life, his ghost could move on. Ty might find his own life to live then, not have someone else’s to carry around like an urn of ashes balanced perfectly on his head.

Ty is the last known person to see Billy alive and there was so much panic wrapped into the moment he couldn’t have imagined it would be the last time. That day had felt so mundane, so ordinary, right up until Billy’s last words.

It’s different for his parents, Ty knows from the way they’ll watch the door sometimes, and how they won’t move houses or towns. They saw their sons walk out the door and sometimes they look at the old hunk of wood like it could just swing open and there Billy would be, just as they’d left him. Finally coming home, an ending.

Each of them has their own version of Billy’s ghost haunting them. When Ty thinks about that day, he tries to think of what he could have done differently, but it’s all hopeless— not only because he can’t change the past but because there was nothing different to be done. It’s that time travel paradox: trying to stop one tragedy only begets more. Pain, grief, and trauma are their own forms of matter cycling through the world, never created or destroyed.

Tandy can be reckless— she _likes_ to be reckless because it gives her something to do. She doesn’t like to be still, or quiet, and if anyone tells her to calm down she’s more likely to spit in their face than actually do it. The one exception being the only man left in town who scares both of them.

Tandy’s not reckless when Rumlow’s around, not any more, not after Ty begged her not to because things only got worse. She doesn’t like to make things worse for him, so she’s tight lipped and stone faced. But up here on the cobblestone back road up to the carnival there’s no sign of Rumlow— and if he were to come up they would hear him long before he’d see them, long enough to hide. So Tandy gets a little reckless.

She steps up onto rocks and climbs to tall places. Ty read somewhere that cats like climbing because they’re most comfortable at a high vantage point. Or maybe it was something about how naturally regal they are— no one’s head shall be higher than the king’s.

Tandy trips but doesn’t fall, catches herself with enough grace to laugh about it, and Ty waits for his heart to climb down from his throat. Instead he looks away from her, finding it much easier than watching her almost fall. She climbs off the rocks, placing her hand on his shoulder for balance, and when he feels she’s on solid ground— she tells him by locking their fingers together— he can look at her without worrying over her. It’s exhausting to worry so much so often.

“When was the last time you were at the fairgrounds?” Tandy asks.

“I’m at the gates all the time,” Ty replies, his footing so sure of itself in the dark that he doesn’t have to watch it, he can keep his eyes on his surroundings. “My dad and I hike up here every Sunday.”

“Before church, right?” She says it like a question but he doesn’t understand why she’d ask something she already knows. She goes on, “Look at you, so well rounded. Straight A’s, MVP for private school basketball, and he hikes with his dad and goes to church with his mom on weekends.”

“You can come to church if you want,” Ty offers and he’s not sure why. The idea of Tandy in a church strikes an dissonate chord inside him. He’s not sure he wants her to see him in his choir robe.

“Can’t stand the places,” Tandy sighs, forlorn, “I burn up in there.”

He laughs— it’s mean but it’s funny and just silly enough to be brushed aside. He likes how she always smiles after he laughs, like she’s completed a job well-done. “You can come on the hike if you want too,” he offers.

“I want to try mountain climbing,” Ty might think that was a cool idea if he wasn’t imagining all the things that could go wrong. He makes a mental list of what safety gear she would need to stay out of harm’s way.

“You always gotta go bigger,” Ty sighs, this time he’s the one sounding forlorn, “What about you? When were you here last?”

“I’ve never been past the gate much either,” Tandy confesses, and she keeps her voice low as they come up on the remainder of their party— this is something she can only say to him. “I did break the lock open though. Just couldn’t get the guts to cross inside.”

“Hard to picture you scared of anything,” Ty says, a little joke but just as softly spoken.

“That’s just because I always feel so safe with you,” There’s a funny way Tandy’s lip shakes when she tells an absolute truth. She’s smiling, certainly she wants to play it off as a joke, but her lip undeniably shakes and Ty knows she means it. Fear is a complicated chemical reaction of the brain in that it takes many forms, causing all kinds of responses both physical and psychological. Ty is flattered by what Tandy’s said and also dreads it in the base of his spine.

They’re all standing at the gate now and Tandy drops his hand in order to throw her bag on the ground, kneel in front of it, and start sifting around looking for something in particular. Ty is curious about what it could be but doesn’t have time to ask before she’s pulled it out of the bag and stood up with her tool. It’s bolt cutters. Ty was aware that she owned bolt cutters but he’d never seen them before. It makes sense to him now, though, that they’ve been in that humongous bag she totes around everywhere this whole time. Honestly, it would surprise Ty if those bolt cutters were the _only_ heavy duty power tool in there. Ty bets she’s even got a copy of short stories in there somewhere, just in case they get bored later. They used to have sleepy summer afternoons in his tree house reading Poe outloud to each other. It was the biggest book they could find and it had a raven on the cover— which Ty thought looked cool.

She snaps the jaws of it together, taking an end in each hand and making the creaking noise of unused metal on itself. The sound quits after she’s snapped the rust off and then she heads for the lock on the gate. Ty kneels down and picks up her messenger bag— he tosses it over his shoulder with ease, there’s only a slight difference from it’s usual weight indicating to Ty that she doesn’t have them in there all the time. She must have something just as heavy usually. He’ll have to probe her later to find out what kind of secret power tools she’s stashing next to her melted gum all the time.

Chase and the sisters make a hole for Tandy quickly, jumping out of her path like she’s carrying an axe instead— maybe it’s because Tandy makes a show of snapping it again and cackling like an axe murderer would. Molly finds it funny though and steps up behind Tandy at the gate to watch her snap the chains. Chase does take a breath to ask Tandy, “Why do you just _have_ those?” in a tone that suggests he’s unnerved by it more than grateful. Which he should be because if Tandy hadn’t had those on her Chase’s fiasco of a date would be over at these rusty gates.

“Can I try?” Molly asks, pretty keen for what is a two on the Tandy Scale Of Delinquency but a seven on any respectable parent’s scale. Tandy holds it out to her and Molly tucks her hands into her sleeves— like Tandy might run it for prints later— and takes hold of them. Molly seems to struggle a little, the thing not being as straightforward as one would assume, so Tandy gets closer to her and advises on footing and where to place the mouth of the cutters.

“So you guys do this all the time?” Gert asks, turning her body to face Chase but keeping her head at an angle where she can keep an eye on her little sister.

“I normally climb up the tree towards the North side. It’s hung low enough it’s not a bad jump,” Chase explains.

“Why can’t we use that? This seems much more aggressive,” Gert asks.

Ty shrugs. “They cut the tree down earlier this year. Termites or something. No one really cares about who goes in or out. It’s not condemned— it’s technically public property. Like a church.”

“Or the lighthouse,” Chase offers.

“So then why is there a lock and chain on it?” Gert asks, eyeing Molly’s hacking skills.

At the same time that Chase says “safety” Ty says “ghosts” and they’re both loud enough that Tandy laughs. “Safety from Ghosts,” Chase concludes. “And tetanus, probably.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ty says and then, louder, “I don’t usually taunt ghosts in this reckless fashion.” His tone is enough to both construe it as a joke and also so any ghosts can hear. Ty has seen enough episodes of paranormal investigations to know ghosts shouldn’t be taunted.

“What’s the matter, Johnson? You afraid we’re gonna get cursed?” Tandy teases next to Molly, who has definitely cut enough links on the chain that she can stop now but she keeps it up anyway. She must find it very satisfying for some reason.

“I _know_ we’re gonna get cursed,” Ty says back. The chain drops to the ground and Molly places the bolt cutters over her shoulders and behind her head, resting her wrists on the ends. She looks very casual, undoubtedly the look she’s going for. Or possibly her arms really are that tired— she did just cut half the links on that chain.

“We should have brought some anti-ghost gear. Like some salt or some sage or something,” Molly suggests.

“On Rare Birds, they have hula hoops full of salt,” Ty suggests then pats his own body down before saying, “dang I forgot mine.” Tandy pushes the gate open and it creaks something fierce. The five of them just stand there, for a few seconds, as if each of them are waiting for a bad omen to pop out.

It’s Molly, in the end, stepping in first and Gert only a couple of paces behind her. Chase, seemingly unable to be apart from Gert for longer than two minutes at a time, follows her in. Chase makes a small jump at the entrance so he can smack the bottom of the sign. Ty starts to walk in after them only stopping when he notes that Tandy isn’t following yet.

He waves a hand in front of her face and she blinks at him— she must have really forgotten he was there, lost in her own thoughts. Something’s on her mind— he wishes she would just tell him. Ty is iffy on God between one day and the next— sometimes the sermons feel real and powerful, and other times they feel destructive, like suffering is made better by doing it in God’s name. He can’t abide by that. But Ty very firmly believes in confessional. It’s free therapy, is how he likes to look at it. Either way telling a secret does better for the soul than not.

Why can’t they talk and confess to each other anymore? Why does it scare them both the way it does?

“We don’t have to go,” Ty offers, and she shakes her head so she can buy herself time to plaster that fake smile on her face.

“I’m not scared,” She insists. She crosses her arms across her chest and tucks her hands into her elbows— maybe to keep him from noting if they shake or not. Tandy’s hands always tremble when she’s really scared.

“Didn’t say you were,” He replies, “but if you were, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Chase got his date and her sister in. Our work here is done.”

She pulls her hands away from her body and reaches to adjust the strap of her messenger bag across his chest. She’s smiling— she likes to see him in it. She told him once it made him look like Indianna Jones.

“Last time I was here, it was a bad experience,” She explains to him and it feels, for that instant, just like when they were kids. The kind of raw honesty they were never afraid of. “So it’d be nice to have a good experience this time.” Her brown eyes lock with his and he wonders if she’s searching for those slivers of gold she mentioned— he wonders if she can see them clearly in the dark. She stares into him like she can and maybe, for her, his eyes are the only thing in the world. 

“You do that all the time for me. But don’t feel like you _have_ to do it.” He doesn’t quite get what she’s saying and that must come across in the way his brow furrows or he bites his lip because she adds, “You don’t gotta do stuff because it’s better for me. S’all I’m saying. I’m gonna be fine if I go,” she struggles for the word— it’s so rare she struggles for words, “without you.”

He’d believe that if she didn’t sound so sad about it. He pulls the messenger bag off his body and places it around hers. She doesn’t even flinch as the weight is added back on to her— she’s so used to carrying it around that it doesn’t phase her anymore.

“Can’t let you go anywhere without me, Bowen. Who’s gonna look out for you?” Whatever fear she had that kept her on the other side of the gate she must shove it down and away. She takes his hand as she marches forward into the park, pulling him along gentle but eager.

It occurs to him that being reckless is a beggar’s kind of bravery. If she’s going to be afraid, she might as well be wild and untamed with it.

“We have to hold our breath when we cross,” He warns her. She doesn’t have any time to ask him about that because they’re crossing the threshold, and as she does a sharp intake of breath, so does he. He keeps hold of it even as he jumps in the air, hand smacking the bottom of the sign— about half an inch higher than Chase made it -- he’s pretty sure. He only lets the breath out once they are three steps past the gate.

“What’s that for?” Tandy asks. He picks out Gert’s purple hair and Molly’s pink hat quickly and leads them that direction. It’s probably best that they don’t play into some horror movie stereotype by splitting up the group.

“So we don’t get cursed,” He replies, like it’s such an easy concept. She laughs.

He takes a look around, trying to piece together his idea, the assumptions he’s had of this place with the new formed reality. It’s busted up and dirty, but in ways Ty hadn’t considered. He was thinking more of a Banksy’s Dismaland vibe but instead this place is just dark and smells weird. Like a poorly lit X-Files episode or watching Hannibal on Prime.

There’s a poster with a map of the grounds near the entrance— this is where Molly, Gert, and Chase have stopped to wait for the two of them.

Molly points to something in the center of the map and Ty follows the number listed on that square to the faded key on the side. Molly opens her eyes and Ty realizes they must have been debating for a while about where to go— to the point where they elected to pick something at random.

“Doctor Strange’s Mirror Maze of Madness,” Ty reads aloud from the key. “That’s at the center of the park. Should we head there or take the path?”

“It’s gonna be hard to see like this,” Tandy reminds them, gesturing around at all the broken lights. Ty realizes then that all the lights are off but none of the bulbs are broken. The wires are intact too— they look new enough. As if someone in the past few years has been maintaining the park in this one specific way.

“If we could find the fuse box, I could probably get us some light,” Chase promises and Ty has to admire his bravado.

“Just like that, huh?” Tandy asks, more a question to Ty than Chase but she doesn’t mutter or otherwise hide it from the rest of the group. She’s pretty sure no one can bring light on in this dump. Ty is a little inclined to agree even for how determined Chase is.

“We could at least try,” He insists, “Look, the fuse box is in the middle of a carousel or something. I could at least pop the hood and take a look.”

“Are you an electrician?” Molly asks. Ty doesn’t think that Molly believes him, she’s smiling like she pities him a little, but she at least appears to be on Chase’s side— she’s not actively working against him anyway.

“Mechanic,” Chase replies while he moves his finger over the trail in the map to get from the entrance to the carousel, “My grandpa owns the shop in town. My dad made a big deal about me learning it.”

Both of those men are dead but Ty’s always found it strange how Victor is spoken in the past tense but Chase’s grandfather seems always present, as if immortal— something that looms and conquers the Stein household still. Some ghosts don’t haunt places, they haunt bloodlines.

“He fixes all kinds of stuff,” Ty offers, directing the comment straight to Gert who takes a lock of her purple hair and twirls it around her finger, “People call him all the time for motorcycles and boats.”

“Fixed the generator at The Diner more than a few times,” Tandy offers. 

“Handy fella,” Gert says and it’s something of a cross between a chuckle and a sigh. That seems like a good thing.

“El por supuesto ya tiene el motor de Gert enciendido,” Molly directs it entirely at Gert who responds by grabbing at Molly’s hat and messing it around in her hair. Ty took French for his language credit, but it’s clear Gert is the only one Molly was speaking to anyway.

Chase claps his hands, in an attempt to get everyone’s attention and then points to the left. “We should head up that way and take a right at the first fork. To get to the generator.” Molly is busy fixing her hair back into her hat and Gert helps her so the first person to walk this time is Tandy and by extension Ty. He never realized before how often he just follows her places. Is it always like this? Is she always leading?

Chase hangs back, waits for the sisters to shake the lead out, and then again they are split into groups of two and three separated by a few paces. Ty isn’t sure how Tandy can walk so fast on such tiny legs. Scientifically, it doesn’t seem possible. She can’t keep the stride up for long, whether it’s because it takes more energy or because she’s starting to recoil from the strange environment around them he’s not sure. There’s something like fear in the way she curls into him but it feels external. Like she’s clinging to him to protect him from something.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” She tells him. Her hands are shaking— she’s such a liar.

He quickly shouts in response, “She doesn’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” She yells, trembles steadying now that he’s making fun of it, “I do! If there are any ghosts out there, come on down to haunt me!”

“I am not standing next to you if you invite a killer clown into this excursion. I am literally going to run in the other direction and leave you behind.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” She says, normal volume now. Not ghost taunting volume which Ty appreciates. Not lying about being scared volume either. “That’s what you’re supposed to do in a mugging, you know?” She offers and he’s not sure why she brought that up. “Just if you’re in a group and you get mugged you’re supposed to split up and run in opposite directions.”

“You know a lot about muggings,” He says and she tucks some hair behind her ear and he notices she’s wearing the earrings he got her when she turned thirteen. He didn’t think she still had them. Maybe they were lost and she came across them recently.

They’re little pointed crosses— daggers, he told her. She liked those better than crosses, she said.

“Well if you find yourself in a situation I want you to know what to do,” She counters, a little pushy with her tone but she covers it, talks bubbly and happy to him in the next breath, “it’s not like you see many guns around McDunn.”

“Last I checked the only person who mugs people is you anyway, sticky fingers.”

“Pickpocketing is not mugging,” She says, playfully defensive, “pickpocketing is subtle and less aggressive. Also kinder because everyone gets their driver’s license back.”

He doesn’t know how often she does that kind of stuff. A small town, there aren’t many people she could get away with it, and eventually it would leave Rumlow sniffing back to her.

“Don’t need a gun to pickpocket,” She continues, “although maybe I should get one. I think I’d look hot with a gun.”

He’s never understood the fascination with the things. Television in other countries, stuff not set in America, there’s hardly a gun in sight. Like the rest of the world knows not to worship them. It’s different here, not like things are advertised blatantly, but it’s just a forty minute drive to WalMart in the next town over and Tandy told him once that they don’t check ID there. Which is scary, it’s a terrifying idea and it doesn’t sit well with him.

“Don’t,” Ty says, voice soft and a little shaky. He can’t even conceive of the damage that could happen with a loose canon in Tandy’s hands. So reckless when she’s scared.

“Aw come on! Can’t you see me? One in each hand, what do you think of that?” She dances away from him, makes her fingers into little pistols and fires them off a couple of times.

“Tandy,” Ty says, eyes earnest and he notes the second it hits her that he means it because her body softens. “Please don’t.”

She lowers her pistol fingers but doesn’t unclench them until he reaches out and covers her hand with his. She lets the shape slide off and instead cups his palm and holds his hand back.

“Just a joke,” She assures him, in a nonchalant way that makes him worry that it wasn’t, “guns are for cowards anyway,” She adds. It’s what he wants to hear so he worries it isn’t true. Her lip doesn’t give her away— she’s still a good liar even pitted against him.

He’s about to launch into the fun facts of the twenty-one foot rule, something to bring the levity back. Tandy likes that rule: within twenty-one feet of your opponent you can do more damage with a knife to him than he can to you with a gun.

But then something moves in the distance, just next to the corner of his eye and he stops. The lights aren’t on and it’s still pretty dark on the grounds, but Ty would know that shape anywhere, the one it makes even in the darkness— a looming silhouette that makes him freeze, hold position, maybe it can’t see him if he doesn’t move.

Tandy stills next to him and he knows the second she sees it because her breath scrambles back inside her throat and she holds it for four seconds.

It’s Rumlow’s cruiser.

It’s empty, abandoned, and it’s as still as anything else around them. Just shadows holding to the dark, a ghost that can’t pass through him, tied to the one spot.

Tandy pulls off of him and walks right up to it and immediately starts poking around, checking all the doors which are unlocked.

By the time she starts rooting around in the front seat, Molly and her collective catch up with them and Ty finally eases, the fear leaking out of him— they’re in a group, it’s safer in a group. But still the panic stains him on the inside. Fear isn’t a poison you can suck out, it leaves traces of itself all over like oil. Group or not, _Ty_ is still here, and now Rumlow is also here and there’s no telling when he’ll come back to his car to find them.

“Where’s Rumlow?” Ty asks, moving forward towards Tandy. He’d feel better if he could see what she’s doing in there, even better if there was some light to look by. As far as he can tell it’s a show of shadows puppets in the cop cruiser. What if Rumlow is just lying in wait for them? He’s not above it.

Tandy pulls a large object out of the front seat and then tosses it at Molly. Molly catches it, she fumbles a little with the shape but doesn’t drop it, and turns the flashlight on with ease. She immediately puts it under her chin and turns back to the other three, laughing evilly.

“You’ll never escape my haunted carnival now, you meddling kids,” Molly’s performative menacing villainous declaration makes Chase and Gert laugh but Ty can’t find it in him to be amused.

What are they doing? What is _he_ doing? This was a bad idea. Such a reckless idea and they need to leave.

“Where’s Rumlow?” Ty asks again, louder and more urgent. The only time that man is not actively inside his cruiser is when he comes into The Diner. He wears the car like a suit of armor and Ty has to admit that it makes him seem impenetrable. He’s never seen that snake shed his skin like this.

“Not here,” Tandy answers. She’s grabbing things. He can hear her moving them from their places in the car to the things in her bag and he hopes she’s not being _that stupid_. Surely she can’t be this reckless.

Chase, Gert, and Molly bypass Ty and come up to the car and start rooting around. His feet feel glued to the ground— like the sticky asphalt in the parking lot, that putrid smell fresh in his nostrils. Billy helps him get water into Tandy’s mouth, helps them cimb and hide under the car. Ty didn’t know it then but that look in Billy’s eyes was fear. Billy’s voice trembled a little as he told Ty to stay safe. Ty has to close his eyes to remember he’s not there. He’s not trapped under the car with his arm bleeding from the broken glass. He’s not waiting in the dark for a shot to ring out.

“I don’t see any footprints or anything,” Molly calls out— she doesn’t sound scared and everyone should be. Worse than knowing where Rumlow is is _not_ knowing where he is and he’s obviously _somewhere_ close by.

“The windshield is smashed,” That’s Gert and there’s something calming about that fact that is enough to make Ty open his eyes and come within range of the cruiser to look. “The front end too. Looks like he hit a deer or something.”

“Maybe a deer hit him,” Molly offers looking around the grounds for a sign of the wounded animal. “Maybe it was that bear you guys saw.”

“It was a mountain lion,” Chase corrects.

“There aren’t mountain lions in Maine. It had to be a bear,” Gert insists, even though her sister looks like she gives no fucks about what the creature was— she’s much more fascinated by the broken and bent parts of the cruiser.

“There’s claw marks on the paint,” Molly says, crouching down and looking through the driver’s side window. “I think the keys are still in there.”

“Don’t touch them,” Ty says quickly, stepping up to Molly and putting himself between her and the door handle. “This stinks like a trap,” He explains.

Molly looks around and then nods. “Yeah, that’s a good point. No one’s stupid enough to hit a deer then leave the keys in the car.”

“You don’t know Rumlow,” Tandy laughs from her side of the car. She climbs up on top of it, stands tall on the roof and then gazes up at the sky. “I hope that bear dragged him out kicking and screaming.”

“Would a bear come to a haunted carnival?” Molly asks.

Tandy shrugs as she answers, “Bears probably go anywhere.”

“I’m telling you: it was a cat. It was big but it was cat like,” Chase insists. Ty can’t stop looking at Tandy’s bag. The way it bulges oddly now, full of something she’s stolen from Rumlow’s cruiser.

Ty opens his palms to her and says, in a voice he swears is his father’s, “What did you steal?”

Tandy has a reaction to the voice— her nose wrinkles and she gives Ty an incredulous look. “Don’t worry about it,” is what she says and there’s no way she can know him and think he’s going to go with that as an answer.

“Gimme the bag,” Ty climbs onto the hood of the car and holds his hands out to her again. She takes a step away from him, pulling the bag behind her and sneering at him.

“It’s my bag, Ty,” she says. “It’s not your business what’s in my bag.”

He climbs off the hood of the car, to the passenger’s side where Tandy’s left the door open, and she jumps back as if he was going to move towards her, like he would climb up to her level of hubris.

“What are you doing?” She asks him, and there’s a tremble in it she’s trying to hide, something like shame mixed with fear trying to pass off as anger.

Ty doesn’t answer her. He leans in and looks around. He uses his elbow to pop open the glove compartment and finds it empty. He feels the car rock and move as Tandy walks over it, closer to him. He pulls his head out and glares at her and she isn’t hiding shame behind anger just then.

“You can’t just steal a cop’s gun,” He says, and it’s accusatory in a way that brings anger to the forefront of her face.

“You think Rumlow leaves that thing places? You think he hit a deer and then left his gun in the cruiser?”

“What happened to ‘guns are for cowards’ and all that?” He holds his hand out to her again. “Gimme the bag, Tandy.”

“No,” She says, it’s got ire in it, something that would burn him to hear if he wasn’t so upset with her. “I didn’t take his stupid gun. I’m not an idiot.”

“Then prove it and gimme your bag,” He presses. She walks off the back end of the car, jumps down and heads in the opposite direction of the carousel. She’s nimble but he’s faster and it’s only a few steps before he catches up with her and grabs the strap on her bag.

“Back _off_ ,” She snarls at him, trying to pull the bag away but he’s got a good grip on it, and a better angle, so he pulls until it slips off of her. “That’s not your business,” She snaps.

“You thinking about hurting yourself that’s my fucking business,” He snaps back at her, opening the bag and rummaging around in it. “Messing with Rumlow is my business.” He knows he should be careful, that it could go off if the safety isn’t on, but he also needs to find it, needs to put a physical form to the fear so he can launch it into the sea, wiping their prints off.

“Don’t be dramatic,” She takes hold of the bag and pulls at it, “I wouldn’t do that. Leave it alone.” There’s something frantic in the way she pulls against him— guilt winning out against anger.

“You can’t do reckless shit like this all the time Tandy, I can’t always protect you from your stupid kicks.”

“Screw you,” She spits at him, “you’re not my dad.” She pulls the bag harder than he would have given her credit for but his grip is stronger, his determination is stronger, and he holds fast to it.

“Yeah, I actually care whether you live or die,” He doesn’t mean to shout it. It’s like a cough or a sneeze, something that boils into him and has to come up. Like steam on a kettle or the foghorn in the lighthouse, the snarl and growl of a lion.

She gives him this pained look he’s never seen before. It’s fragile, a little broken, and then fleeting because she’s angry again. She’s glaring and he drops his grip. She pulls the bag back onto herself. She holds it to her chest like a shield.

“Had that one in the barrel didn’t you?” She hisses at him. He didn’t find the gun. He’s less sure that she took it now. That fear wrecks havoc inside of him but he can’t shake how hurt she looks.

He should tell her he didn’t mean it— but he did. “I shouldn’t have said that,” He lands on instead.

She opens the flap of her messenger bag, takes it off of her shoulder and spills the contents all over the ground. It’s still dark, but even with just the moonlight Ty can tell there’s no gun in there. She throws the bag on top of its contents. She doesn’t wait for him to search through them, she turns on her heels and hurries away, not running, but walking as fast as she can. Tandy Bowen running away. For an instant something he’d forgotten flashes across his mind: the pattern on the bottom of Billy’s shoes, the places of supination, and the hatch crossing that looked like zigzags.

Vanishing like a ghost into the dark.

*

She no longer experiences things like she used to--although she can’t remember how things used to be she just knows they were different. She knows it like the name she hears, screamed at her from the shore, or the beating of her heart, the way it was when she was smaller and her hands were gentle things not talons made for ripping the sandpaper flesh of sharks. She had fewer teeth and the ones she carries in her now, rows upon rows of the ivory weapons shoved into her mouth making it feel too full. She sometimes thinks, if she could form her mouth the way she used to, she could spit all the extra teeth out and feel closer to the beating of her first heart.

Is this not her first heart?

She hears it from above, she paddles in large circles under the waves , listening and looking again for that heart: the beat she knows from her birth and before. A single heart split between the two of them--Bucky always said she took the bigger piece, had so much love in her heart that it was bigger.

She remembers that. She remembers the warmth of it and her smile stretching on her face baring happiness instead of teeth. Her body is wrong or her mind is or both but her heart is correct. Her heart is the only part of her she can anchor to and so she stops her circles, the whirlpool forming beneath her fizzles and dies, a tornado unable to pick up speed and shape. She is the heart of the force anyway, the power of the current bends around her in her large body and as she swims straight, an arrow headed for the beating of her other heart.

She might have gone back to the cliff, the building that hangs from it a different stone from the rocks she knows. She knows it is a building, she understands it is man made, unnatural as herself but she isn’t sure how she could know such a thing. She should be too old for it— ancient and wrong and caught out of time. 

She is a girl. She has hands to plant flowers and cut a deck of cards. She is a beast. She has claws for catching food and cutting enemies. She’s both and neither, a whirlpool all it’s own spiraling within her. She could devastate this world from that building to the coast off of New York City. Her body was born there, her new one, and rested in peace in the cold deep only to be disturbed by grave robbers.

She is a dragon in her keep and she knows of gold and the cities of men, the value of things but not how it all fits together. If she could only focus she would know but whatever she is now can’t hold such complexities— animals are all compulsion but she can’t think how being human was any different. She knows it must have been otherwise it wouldn’t be so hard to grasp now. People have compulsion with focus— that’s the difference. To be human she has to focus.

Focus.

_Focus._

It doesn’t hold— that humanity feels like grabbing fire, trying to hold a flame that only burns and makes her scream with ancient ferocity.

She is a force of nature, too old to have a name but the world knows enough to tremble around her, to be bent to her purposes. She knows her own name for the first time in years. She is Bex. She is Beast. She is aching for her heart, in desperate search of it. She hears it on the shore, begging her to find it— to say the name. There is power in a name— a thing is human if it has a name— the mouth and teeth to utter it.

Bucky. She needs to get to Bucky— she loves him in a human way, complex and deeply a part of her, something that could not be separated from her no matter how many bodies they lock her in. Bucky will feel it too, he’ll understand it, even if she can’t speak to him.

The feeling of needing him pulls at her heart but the strings are all tangled up in the way beasts hunt, the wild law of kill to eat snagging on her humanity, until all she knows is: heart, mine, take.

There is that noise again. Like screaming and confusion, lonely and loud, a mockery of the way her kind died all around her, the last primal noise before the light goes out.

Whoever she is, she is too lonely, and the tall beast on the shore that calls out reminds her of this. She is aware of it in a way that beast and ghosts should not have to be.

She must kill the noise. 

*

Clint grabs Sam by the arm of his sleeve first, and pulls him back and away towards the lighthouse. There’s at least protection from the splash of water, the tiny tidal wave, that the beast creates when she lands. Clint has been doing this job a long time— he’s been researching things like Loch Ness and Mothman since before there was internet when he was just a pre-teen in his mother’s living room looking up information until his mother demanded to use the phone line.

But all his time studying pictures and first hand accounts, Clint never actually _saw_ anything definitive to prove that these things really existed. That is half the fun of it, for Clint anyway, knowing that maybe you’ll never really see it but some people have, to see it is to become part of a club.

This is different: she is real. Definitive. Furthermore Clint has her on tape, several good shots and if anything happens to the camera he’ll never forgive himself. More importantly, pre-teen Clint will never forgive him. So Clint has two priorities when she lands on the shore, her giant claws pulling at the sand and rocks on the beach. Protect Sam and film this incredible beast for proof. There’s never been so much evidence of a thing and Clint is the one to break the story.

She pulls her massive body from the waves, she rises from the water, steps deep holes into the sand, little craters that serve as further proof that she is _real_. She’s bigger than she looks even from the surface, a living iceberg that can move to show you her truest depth. Clint has to step back even further, not just to pull both himself and Sam out of harm’s way— she could crush them and not even stop to realize it— but also to get a better angle, to try and fit all of her into frame.

Sam runs along with Clint, his face in a semi-permanent state of shock that he is seeing a dinosaur with his own eyes. This is a completely different moment of incredulity to Sam— where Clint has always sought out such things, hoped that they were true and he could have a little piece of the proof with him— even if it was just a memory. Certainty is so hard won for Clint but Sam has conviction. Sam only goes after real things, wants to help real people who have suffered real pain find closure. It’s a hard shift for Sam, having to be funny on their glorified fluff piece of a show, and making sure he’s not treated like a joke, that his pursuits are nobel and just. It’s different for Clint because he makes himself a joke; it doesn’t cost him anything. He doesn’t demand to be taken seriously. But people don’t want to take what Sam says seriously, because Sam speaks the truth and no one wants to hear that. It’s harder for Sam to garner belief— Sam is always needing evidence upon evidence to show the truth. 

Clint turns his attention back to the beast but something in him has shifted, slightly, slotted into a place he had forgotten about. The beating of his heart that says he and Sam both have a job to do here because this creature is real, rare, and even though she towers above them, even though she roars with her jaws full of sharp teeth, she is vulnerable. Clint has to help her.

He can’t hear what her roar sounds like, but he can feel how it pulses in the air, how it forces a wind to pick up and flap James’ coat in the force of it. Looking at her face though, her colossal ancient face, all Clint can see is pain and confusion. She makes expressions like a person, her stretched long lips move in an effort to form words it simply can’t. Clint isn’t sure how but he knows it deep in him, the same way he knew he’d be a part of some Cryptid breakout story: she is human, and suffering, and he and Sam _must_ help her. Clint looks to Sam, the camera spinning and lighting him up green on the screen of it. Clint watches that instead of Sam himself, the picture much clearer in the dark than simply shining a light onto Sam’s face. Clint isn’t sure how he conveys it, maybe he doesn’t— it’s more likely that Sam just knows and feels it as strongly as Clint does, the recognition of humanity in a creature unseen since before man walked upright. 

Sam says, “We need to help,” and Clint nods, the whole camera bouncing with it.

Clint turns back to focus on her. She is still but not unmoving, her scales and feathers ripple water off of her body. Water drips off of her like sweat— the ocean has sprung forth from her. She is god like— in command of the volatile waters and the beasts lurking within. She has feathers like a duck or a swan, smoothly shaped, with some small degree of oil slicked into the individual threads, enough to make wetness roll off whenever she comes onto land.

Clint wonders how often she walked on land in the time before— it isn’t easy for her, there’s a clear struggle in the way her ribs expand and contract, showing how breathing the air like this, on dry land, exhausts her but she is determined to move. It’s a thing deeper than instinct, Clint knows because he can zoom in on her eyes now, he can see how tormented they are, the body pulling against its own nature— a mind at constant unrest.

Clint gets closer and kneels so he can get both Bucky and the beast in the shot but they don’t do anything. They stand and watch each other and she’s panting like she is pleading for something while James reaches up his arm and holds it just above her feathers like he’s going to pet her but he is afraid to lower his hand. She brings up her snout to meet his hand and Clint catches the exact frame where they touch— he swears he sees a spark, something ethereal when they’re flesh connects but it is gone in an instant.

Bucky pulls away again, covering his ears once more as the beast draws away, like she’s been burned, her body lurching back and away from Bucky, tossing her head back to bare her strong throat, a long scar starting at her sternum that continues down her body and disappears somewhere around her belly. The way her throat moves tells him that she is, again, roaring and Clint knows why when he turns to Sam, a steady port in a storm as usual, and he makes the sign for “alarm”. Index finger extended on non-dominant hand, thwacked against the flat palm of the dominant hand— it’s not an everyday sign and Clint isn’t sure how Sam knows it so quickly. Sam continues, three fingers extended, thumb holding down the pinky— Sam’s fingers move so quickly, spelling out without any pause until Sam hits “R” and stalls. Clint knows what he means, he looks back through the camera so Sam doesn’t have to finish the last of the letters— Clint gets the idea: there’s something about the noise that disrupts the beast— Kate must be pulling the foghorn to keep her from eating someone. Clint isn’t one hundred percent sure that the beast _woudln’t_ have eaten any of them, he’s more at a seventy-five on that front, but the beast had no intent to harm James so Clint files that in a place he hopes it will be useful to know later. 

He spins the camera back to the beast and she is walking backwards into the water again, disappearing beneath the surface but now that Clint has seen what’s below, he can’t unsee it. He knows how deep the sea must be to hold and hide her the way it does. Picturing something so deep and dark, how the pressure of down below should crush anything less than the beast herself, makes him run cold and shiver but his hands stay steady on the camera. If nothing else he can’t lose the footage. All of this destruction and pain mean nothing if no one else sees the footage. If they can’t prove it happened.

She doesn’t completely submerge herself. Once she is back in the water, the place where she moves best, she changes trajectory towards the lighthouse and climbs out again. She’s still slower, but her large body makes the trip in under two of her steps. Clint runs out of her path, up the beach and towards the docks, the cottage, Sam already running ahead of him by a mile or more. The only way to keep an alligator from attacking you is not to run but run in a zigzag formation. Their bodies can’t turn and change direction easily and it costs them a lot of energy to chase a target moving that way.

He doesn’t know what Sam is doing but Clint knows to trust him. The only thing that stops the beast from moving must be the foghorn, Clint is starting to recognize the way the beast screams when she hears it, how her body responds in a specific way— always lurching back before a responding howl of her own flies out of her throat. The lighthouse calls to her, she calls to it, with a love turned to sour hatred in her heart. Clint knows what her body screams like when she hears the noise from the lighthouse— how it twitches through every inch of her; a mockery of her primal loneliness.

Bucky or James, whoever he is he has no kind of self preservation— or maybe no kind of common sense— either way the guy starts to strip off his coat and slide out of his shoes on his way into the water. Rogers doesn’t notice it until Bucky starts to move but when he sees where his friend is headed Rogers flings his body onto Bucky in an effort to slow him down. It works, Bucky’s movements into the water, wading through the tide to his beast, are slowed and brought to a near halt that he attempts to swim through. Rogers is like a stream of dish soap flung onto a wasp, weighing his man down and sinking him before he can crawl too deep into the sea. They’re speaking, they’re bodies and lips moving but Clint doesn’t spend longer than a few seconds recording them, his eyes on the beast again as she towers before the lighthouse— they’re almost the exact same height.

She lifts herself onto her back legs, she looks almost like a dachshund sitting pretty for just a few frames before she plunges her claws deep into the old stone of the lighthouse. Clint knows instantly that it will not be able to withstand her power. There’s only a few cracks now but he sees how they wind their way through the stone and he can see before it happens exactly how it will crumble.

Panic seizes him by the throat and he could almost choke on it: Kate is going to die.

The beast begins to shake the lighthouse in her grip, the bottom stone crumbling, climbing up the top where smashed windows spit glass into the sand. There’s something wrong about it, seeing the glass, molded and sharpened into something deadly, unable to return to its first form. Never again to take the harmless granular form, instead sitting wrong amongst the sand— a heart no longer belonging to the space it was born in.

The glass smashed, the lighthouse disintegrating, and Clint is useless with his camera, on the ground, only able to watch through a small lens looking for where Kate could be. She comes into frame leaping out of the lighthouse nest, no glass windows to get in her way as she takes a dive, her body bending in the moonlight like she’s off to never never land. Clint is really glad he caught it on camera— he’s sure Kate will be too, especially when she sees how amazing she looks landing the dive on the beast’s snout. She tucks and rolls until she can stop herself, finding footing on the dinosaur and holding tight by the roots of some feathers. Kate is safe— well safer than she was mere seconds ago and Clint is grateful for that.

The lighthouse dies a lot faster than Clint would have imagined such a mighty thing would. It was so tall and firm, and unlike in the city it stood as one of the few stone giants of this landscape. It is an empty space in the sky line and a pile of broken brick. It’s hollow to look at something that was so powerful and steady, that withstood ages of storms and all manner of acts of God— except for this one thing. Except for a behemoth older and more alone than that tower of stone could ever be, one whose screaming for love in the dark was not enough to make the lighthouse yield. The beast is the only thing that pierces the skyline now— solitary without even a foghorn to mistake for company. It’s a sight that’s so lonely Clint’s heart breaks. 

Steve is still in the water, wrestling with James who struggles hard to fight himself away from Steve and towards the danger of the beast. Their progression out of the shallows is slow but it is undeniably happening as Rogers starts to sink and bob frantically, his feet kicking under the surface trying to find purchase to stand firm and hold his man back. There is a wild kind of persistence in James as he pushes through Steve’s holds, as he shoves him and moves deeper, his own feet must feel strong enough to hold him above the water and paddle further.

Clint still doesn’t stop filming as she falls back onto her front legs and shakes her head with her eyes closed— more than that: her eyes are shut tight and her head is shaking side to side the way a human’s would, someone trying to block out things and remember. It looks like she’s in anguish and it feels that way when her mouth splits again, and the muscle at the edge of her jaw twitches when she grinds her teeth. Clint runs closer, she's roaring again but not as a long lament this time, in short little bursts, mouth pulling open and shut, small howls now. A different kind of pain— one that can’t be acted on but must be suffered through. Clint is too close to her now, he knows it, it would take one move of any part of her body to crush him but she’s distracted now, or she’s holding still, at least, and he needs to get to Kate.

One quick albeit frantic sweep up the dinosaur's body and Clint finds Kate nestled beneath the beasts feathers on her head and keeping tight hold on them. His free hand goes to the flashlight on his head, and he clicks it on and off a few times until he sees Kate pull herself up and wave down at him. Through the zoom on the camera he can see Kate. It’s hard to watch her because his hand is shaking, unsteady on the camera. Clint isn’t sure what to do other than try to climb up himself. He and Sam really do need to add “grappling hook” to the supplies list.

An eye opens up in front of him and he gasps so quickly his breath gets stuck in his throat, makes a home and a nest back there like it is too afraid to ever come out again. He hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to the beast, the danger he put himself in. He tries to back away as fast as he can but running backwards, holding a heavy duty camera, all on uneven terrain sand under him, is harder than it looks. Even if he could move without any of these obstacles stopping him, he knows his stride is not long or fast enough to outrun the large teeth that shine at him. He zooms out all the way and slips, his foot catching somewhere beneath him and he goes to the ground. Clint doesn’t stop filming. He can see her eyes so close now, all that pain and humanity that she shut behind them vanished when they open and peer at him. It’s all violent carnivor, hunger without distinction and Clint fears for his life, is pretty sure he’s about to die, but this is some good footage and keeping the camera rolling is the only control he has.

The beast pulls it’s head back, opening so wide it reminds Clint of the alligator skulls some guy tried to sell him and Sam when they were in Florida. Clint had to stare straight into the empty eye holes of the alligator skull, yellowing and dirty, that was mounted on the wall. The guy had said it was the largest skull he or anyone had ever seen. All Clint could think about was how far back into the skull it took before the bones connected. Such a big mouth, so many teeth, and all the bone crushing muscle stripped away. Clint kept joking with Sam, claiming that the skull was moving whenever he looked away. Clint can’t look away now, his eyes through the camera even zoom in to see if he can spot the place in the back of the mouth where the bones connect.

She doesn’t eat him. She was going to, Clint has no doubt about that, but her body changes, her reptilian yet bird like face twisting again in human like emotion as she backs away from him, backs off of the land and back into the water, head shaking back and forth to roar at whatever it is that pulls her.

Clint scrambles upwards to stand and scans the area with his camera. He catches something out in the water, moving quickly and in rapid circles. Clint hoists his camera back to his eye and once the picture comes in clear Clint feels his toes curl in his shoes of their own accord.

Sam is on a speed boat, steering it one handed, weaving in the water, the other held aloft with Rogers’ air horn in his grip, his finger pressed down so hard Clint knows he must be blasting it. The noise must be similar to the fog horn, Clint can only assume so because it has the same effect on the dinosaur as the light house had: unexplained bursts of humanity at war with primal power in the beast and causing enough pain and chaos to lure her after it.

The beast is faster than before, once she sinks into her aquatic element, a place her body was made to move around in. But Sam is no slowpoke on that boat of his— he must have run to the docks down by Steve’s cottage to grab it— and he can weave literal circles in the water around her. Sam makes obstacles of the rocks and taunts the beast with short bursts and blasts of the air horn— Clint watches as Sam’s fingers press and release on the button and then zooms as far out as he needs to get the waterscape in view.

Sam looks really fucking cool. Like, adrenaline junkie Trish Walker wishes she could look as cool as Sam does right now. Just as the dinosaur starts to move in one direction after Sam and the noise he changes course, zipping out of her slithering path and forcing her to shift her too large body in a completely different direction. It must be dizzying for her, it almost is for Clint just to film it but there’s something that steadies him as he keeps gathering footage of Sam outsmarting this ancient colossus. It might be professional muscle memory taking over for Clint as it has a few times tonight, but this time it’s different. It’s about Sam, the way he looks when he throws himself into danger, how he strives to rectify pain with truth. Sam is smart enough to outwit something forty times his size and not even blink.

The beast submerges and the force of it sends waves up in the water. For a countless amount of held breaths Clint keeps rolling the camera but his mind fills with images of Kate drowning, large jaws opening underneath Sam and his boat, or the force of the waves over turning it. Sam doesn’t flinch, in one smooth movement he drops the air horn, puts both hands on the steering wheel, and takes such a sharp turn into the wave that he rides it, uses the momentum to keep the boat upright and he turns towards the shore again.

The beast breaks the surface, it’s a violent motion creates waves that should turn the little speed boat over if it wasn’t being mastered by Sam. Sam keeps riding the waves, turning into them and using them to keep himself above water and out of the direct violent path of the beast. With no sound to disrupt her, she forgets about Sam— doesn’t even spare the little boat a passing glance because her eyes have caught something in the distance.

The fairgrounds on the other end of the beach, perched on a cliffside and almost invisible in the dark night, is lit up like a bonfire, a shining beacon. It pulls and calls to the beast on a level that both the primal rage and human-like pain that lives behind her eyes can agree on. She must conquer all stone giants that would mock her power.

Clint finds Kate again, still perched and steady on the beast’s head and zooms in. Kate, dripping wet but alive, signs at him. She has to let go of her firm hold on the beast to do so but she balances herself well. She holds her hands up, puts up both thumbs, and moves them to the right in synchronicity, one being led by the other. She does it two more times, maybe to make sure Clint sees it, before the shaking of the best under her makes Kate drop her hands to get a firm hold again. He doesn’t need to think too long about what that means.

Now that he knows she’s safe and that the beast is migrating somewhere else, knowing he has definitely gotten enough footage, gives Clint the ability to shift his priority to wading out into the water, catching up with the struggling men in just a few short strides. They aren’t as deep as they were before, the movement of the water must have shifted them back to a shallower place because the both at least have their footing. They’re wrestling each other in the water, Steve’s only motive to keep a grip on his date and the other man’s motive to be following the dinosaur. With one arm, Clint rests and holds the camera propped on his shoulder and the other grabs Bucky by his arm and pulls him back. Rogers keeps a tight hold on the determined brunette after he recovers from splashing about in the shallows. Between Clint’s one handed hold on Bucky and Rogers' inability-to-swim method of weighing Bucky down, they both manage to keep him from swimming after the beast. James is saying something, yelling it probably, and Rogers responds but Clint doesn’t catch any of it. He can’t stay here for long just holding a grown man and his salty hermit boyfriend out of the path of danger; he and Sam need to get after Kate. 

Clint turns his head light to Sam and blinks it rapidly until his partner sees him and turns the boat their way. Sam is smiling and Clint realizes he is too— Sam is amazing. He pulls up alongside the three of them, turns off the motor and leans casually onto the side asking Clint, “Need a ride?”

“Only if you’re driving,” Clint replies and yeah, maybe it is pretty flirty, it’s definitely not professional, but Sam just did the single coolest thing Clint has ever seen and Clint _literally_ just saw a living dinosaur. Clint offers the camera to Sam who takes the load off of him and sets it on the floor of the boat, then offers a hand to pull Clint up. Clint instead passes his grip on Bucky over to Sam but the guy ends up willingly climbing in the boat and scrambling to the other side of it. Clint helps Rogers up and this man does the exact same thing, following after his seasoaked lover only to make sure he doesn’t jump off over the otherside of the boat. He doesn’t, it seems that whatever is driving Bucky to follow the dinosaur is also aware that the boat is going to be better suited for the task than swimming.

Sam leans out and offers his hand to Clint who takes it even though he doesn’t need it. He says to Sam, urgently, “I got it all on tape. We have everything we need for the story.” Sam nods, smiles, and then frowns looking down at Rogers and James on the boat floor.

“Can I keep borrowing your boat?” Sam asks Steve who takes a few seconds to recognize that he’s been addressed by Sam, that this is his boat, apparently, and then he nods. The fact that Sam would take the time now to ask permission of Steve, and emphasize that he was only borrowing and not outright stealing, makes Clint smile. Clint would follow Sam anywhere. Into anything. Because Sam does the right thing. Not just the smart thing, or the brave thing, not the thing that’s going to get him famous, but consistently the _right_ thing.

“You take us after her,” Steve replies, lips gentle on the “her”, “and you can keep the damn thing. Hell, I’ll pay you to take it.”

Sam claps his hands in delight, “Great,” he says and turns back to the steering wheel. He turns the motor on and steadily turns the craft in the direction of the spooky amusement park. At least they won’t get lost on the way there— the place is still brightly lit and even if it wasn’t there the giant dinosaur is pretty easy to follow. There’s a soft wind that caresses Sam’s face as he drives forward, and moonlight that gives him an angelic glow.

They are headed back into the mouth of danger, all the way to the back of the throat to where the bones connect, and Sam is so calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on twitter: @madam_michael


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't post yesterday! I could not get AO3 to work and it was very frustrating! But art! There is beautiful beautiful art! Enjoy Old Lace and more of this creepy amusement park.
> 
> Spanish translations by my beautiful wife parfaitdiem! Dialogue translations are in the notes at the end.
> 
> extra tags for this chapter: referenced absentee father.

Chapter Seven:

Kate has pressed herself up against the glass of the lighthouse, not caring that it leaves print stains or smooshes up her face, because when The Beast of McDunn rises out of the water and charges for the beach she feels like she needs to get her face as close to the action as possible. Watching the dinosaur rise up from the sea, making a splash big enough to crater the ocean around it, Kate thinks about her first date with America. It had started as a group hang out with some of the other folks from the university’s gay/straight alliance to see some documentaries filmed on a back drop in an old theater turned bar. They saw Blackfish and spent the whole night saying “but fuck Sea World” at random intrevals. Kate had cried a little during the movie and wasn’t sure if America had seen until she pulled out a handkerchief and discreetly slipped it into Kate’s palm.

The Beast is in a rage, or something like it, and cuts through the water like a hot knife in butter. The sea parts around her, pulls away to give her room to charge, and she looks beautiful and terrorized like the orcas. Kate sees immediately that Sam and Clint, possibly the other two men down there too, don’t see her coming. They’re wrapped up in each other and Kate has to warn them of the danger. She pulls herself off of the glass, somewhat sticking to it in spaces where her face had fogged it up, and hits a few random levers before she finds the pulley that connects to the foghorn.

Derek had been surprisingly supportive of her relationship with America. So much so that Kate wondered how long he’d known— if he never bought the whole “joined as an ‘ally’” cover in the first place. He was, in a way that made Kate so happy she felt like she could burst, enthusiastic about her having a girlfriend. He wasn’t foreign to the concept, would often mention his old college roommate who “swung that way”, but he was more than just tolerable. It was a bragging right: “my dad was so cool about me being bisexual”. At the end of everything though, it was the only thing he did that was noble. And in retrospect, even without comparing him to America’s moms, it really wasn’t all that big of a step for him to take anyway. She’d presented him to her friend’s like this loving, supportive father, when really all that support was just the least he could do. The least any father could do. Maybe even less than that when weighed against all the other things he actually did.

The Beast is slowed by the foghorn at first— it appears to rattle something loose inside her. She swims to the shore and thrashes about at the noise like it interrupts something important. When she lands on the beach, her body bigger than even the waves that split for her implied, the men on the beach all scatter except for one. This guy, the idiot, just stands there as the beast stalks towards him, her mouth smiling full of teeth and leaning in. He reaches up with the only arm he has left and Kate pictures “Blackfish” again. She can see the jaws closing around that arm, dragging it into the depths, and she acts the only way she can. Kate pulls the horn again because it’s the only power she has to keep the Beast from harming out of trauma and confusion.

Kate doesn’t speak to her father anymore. It’s been a rough few months, and she doesn’t regret cutting him out, but it’s a lot harder than she thought it would be to ignore him. She refers to him as “Derek” to other people because she knows it would make him so angry. He thinks that kind of talk is disrespectful and she wants so badly to disrespect him. She doesn’t expect her sister or anyone else to deliver the message to Derek. She doesn’t imagine anyone is going out of their way to call him and say, “Just so you know when Kate talks about you in conversation she uses your first name.” And maybe that takes a little bit of the sting out of it for her— surely it would feel more rewarding to call him that to his face, to see him sneer— but she knows it’s more hurtful not to talk to him at all.

She knows it’s less hurtful _for her_ not to talk to him at all.

The sound of the foghorn has the beast backing up into the water again— where it feels safe and if it really wanted to, it could dive and hide from that sound that causes it so much disruption. Sam and Clint get the idea to run away from The Beast pretty quickly. Clint is still rolling, still has the camera aimed because he’ll be damned if he misses footage of this. Sam is running, faster than Kate’s ever seen him go, up the beach and back towards their van and Rogers’ cottage. She turns her attention back to Clint and the beast. Sam has a plan; Sam is safe; Sam doesn’t need her to keep a tight grip on the foghorn, but Clint does because he’s too close to the danger and he shows no signs of pulling out to safety. She admires Clint, she looks up to him, but he can be a total dumbass most of the time and now is no exception to the rule.

Susan keeps saying “Dad” on the phone all the time, referring to him more than necessary that way, like she can trick Kate into saying it by sheer repetition. Her sister isn’t the type to come right out and say “Call him ‘dad’ Katie, he’s still our dad”, but she isn’t being subtle about how she feels either. Kate blocked so many numbers after she told Derek she never wanted to speak to him again. She couldn’t block Susan though because that’s her sister, she loves her sister, she still wants to talk to her sister. But lately it’s all about Derek. It’s all about how Kate is mishandling Derek. About how Kate is immature and too self righteous. Maybe Susan believes all that or maybe she’s tired of being in the middle— either way there’s no good reason for Kate to open those wounds again. But sometimes talking to her sister feels like sitting through a TED talk she didn’t sign up for. One where Kate knows more about the subject matter than the presenter and it drives her wild not to stand up and shout about how wrong it is.

The man who touched the beast, follows her into the water. He wades in despite how deep it is, how quickly he sinks. He has a mad kind of determination that Kate can’t put into words except to compare it to how the beast moves towards him and away from the foghorn in a constant push and pull of agony. He has a mission, a purpose, and that purpose appears to be nearly drowning himself if not getting himself eaten by wading into the sea after the dinosaur. Captain Rogers follows the man in. He grapples more with the water, like it’s thicker around him or maybe he just has less wild determination, maybe his purpose isn’t big enough to blind him to the dangers of the water. He wraps his arms around the first man, tries to pull him back and out of the water but there is no keeping the one armed man from moving forward. There is only trying to hold him still, to keep him from getting deeper into the dark depths.

The beast changes course, turns a few degrees towards Kate, and then climbs back onto the land again. Kate finally lets go of the foghorn pulley. Just like the man in the water, Rogers clinging to him, Clint filming despite all the danger, and Sam running after some unknown goal, Kate had been so focused on her own tactics to survive she had forgotten to be afraid for herself. The beast glares— Kate swears it’s human and volatile— into the windows of the lighthouse. They don’t lock eyes, Kate can see deep into the beasts but the dinosaur is clearly searching in the darkened windows for something it can’t find. Kate is invisible, and as far as the beast is concerned, the foghorn is the voice of the lighthouse— Kate might as well be an amoeba in the bloodstream; she matters that little to the beast.

The Beast rises up and then falls forward, the weight of her enough to shake the lighthouse so Kate falls back. The building trembles and the sound of old nails inside aged concrete tells Kate all she needs to know: the beast has decided to kill the lighthouse.

Susan must think it’s “America’s Fault”. She hasn’t ever said that, maybe never would, but Kate’s stomach turns whenever they speak and Kate asks how Susan’s husband is but Susan never asks how America is doing. It’s not America’s fault. Kate cut Derek out for a million personal reasons that have nothing to do with who she’s coming home to or who she’s buying lacey bralettes for. But it’s an easy mistake for Kate’s sister to make without bothering to fact check: Kate gets a socialist Latina girlfriend and suddenly she wants nothing to do with their politically corrupt father anymore.

It is, unmistakably, Derek’s fault. Because if he was going to be a shitty dad that’s one thing, that was something therapy was helping Kate heal from, but at the very least he could be not a shitty person. He could, at least, be a decent human being. It’s hard enough to love a bad father, it’s worse to love him despite him being a bad person.

The lighthouse shakes all around Kate and it’s so hard to find footing here. She’s a balanced acrobat, has always been able to stand tall and steady even with the world crumbling around her and now is no exception. She stands, balancing in the shaking building like she would on the subway, or in a boat while getting her sealegs. She managed to ride around on a hoverboard and not bust her nose up on the first try— she can stand tall in a crumbling building. At least until she finds a way to escape it.

From the way the building disintegrates, from the bottom up, Kate can feel there’s no way she can go down. The stairs behind her squeak and bend in a terrible sound to tell her that the rickety-to-begin-with staircase is now even less of an escape route. The windows in front of her, the one with a Kate shaped stain smooshed into the glass, burst and spray out. There is nothing but sea air and panic between herself and the beast. Those jaws are open, screaming, and Kate knows without thinking that there is only one escape. She runs, doesn’t bother to think about it too hard, otherwise she knows she’ll psych herself out if she thinks, and dives into the mouth. It closes just as she leaps through the broken window and Kate tucks and rolls onto the snout of the beast.

Susan is probably going to stop talking to her soon. It’s hard for her to be in the middle, and Kate wishes she wasn’t there, but Kate didn’t put her there, Derek did. It’s just where she is. If anyone put her in the middle it’s Derek— maybe even their step mother, Heather, who Kate can imagine pleading for Susan to talk some sense into her baby sister. It will be easier for Susan, overall, if she stops talking to Kate until she re-opens the relationship with Derek.

Kate almost goes rolling off the other end of the dinosaur's large snout but catches herself on the large feathers that feel cracked and dried from sea air. A couple of the feathers come loose but otherwise they are in deep enough to keep Kate from plummeting to the ground. She feels like a flea in the beast’s skin and she hunkers down and nests herself there like one. She can’t go down to the ground, too far to fall from, so this is the safest place for her to be.

The beast, with no lighthouse to hold onto and shake into dust, falls back on all fours. There is exactly one moment in which Kate feels safe, steady, and quiet before the dinosaur shakes. She shakes like a wet dog— maybe she’s trying to throw Kate off. If Kate wasn’t so determined to hold on, wasn’t so nested and resistant to dying, she might have. But Kate can dig her claws in and never let go too— she’s not going to die like this. She has to, at least, tell America about how awesome she was leaping from a crumbling building.

Talking to Derek again, trying to build a healthy relationship, isn’t going to happen. That’s never going to happen so every call and text from Susan feels weighted with the fear that it’s the last thing her sister will ever say to her. That’s Susan’s right, of course, if she feels it’s too draining to play mediator, or if she thinks Kate is toxic, she _should_ cut Kate out. But it would suck for Kate. It would feel the way a rubber band does when it’s stretched to capacity, snaps, and hits you in the eye. Still Susan tries to grease Kate’s wheels on that point time and again always making sure to cite how great Derek was “about the whole gay thing”. It hurts Kate that the bar is so low— that Susan would criticize her for wanting to raise it. That, because she loves America, Derek should get some kind of leeway with his other politics. It’s so _good_ of him to accept her. Kate owes him something for loving her. Kate is so tired of cutting deals and paying debts to her father. She doesn’t owe him anything.

The beast starts wailing and Kate notes that these sounds, these little yips of pain sound like the foghorn. That the noises are more similar than they were different. It’s something heartbreaking. As the beast stills, stops thrashing and trying to throw Kate off, there is a much longer moment of stillness while the dinosaur cries into the night for a family it can never see again. A self imposed loneliness— killing the only thing that stood as tall as her, that cried as lonely as her, and she was the one to destroy it. It couldn’t love her right— it couldn’t really be what she needed. But the beast still cries for what it’s lost.

“We’re running real low on parents, Katie,” Susan said to her the last time they spoke. “Are you sure you want to go throwing the last one away?”

Kate finds her footing and nestles into her perch on top of the dinosaur’s head again. The beast finally seems to settle and Kate is determined to remain where she is. She’s on top of a dinosaur, and that’s super weird, but she’s not going to let that derail her, in any sense of the word, from seeing this story through. Clint is safe on land and he draws Kate’s attention to him by flashing his headlamp on and off. With one hand gripped tight into the roots of the feathers, Kate sits up and waves down to him. He sees her, which is a relief because once she started waving Kate realized that it’s very dark and she’s pretty far away. Clint must be looking through the camera lens, must have night vision on so he can see her a lot better than she can see him. She wishes she could text someone, anyone, right now about how bonkers her life is. There’s something in the way she and Clint connect across the distance that feels validating in that sense. Clint is just as awestruck as Kate is; if they were close enough to do so they would be jumping up and down with glee sharing in their disbelief.

If Susan chooses Derek’s side it will turn Kate into a kind of self-made orphan. That’s not a bad thing, lots of people don’t have family left and for all kinds of reasons. But the idea of that disconnect, the loneliness it harbingers, hurts like being severed, all of her cut up and buried seperately. It makes anxiety climb up her muscles and tenses everything— that rubber band being pulled and stretched. How much more give does she have inside of her? Is this when it snaps?

America has made it clear that her moms are Kate’s moms— hell, America’s moms have said that early and often enough. They’ve got plans to spend most of the holiday season with them at their place down south. There’s no lack of father figures either. Both Sam and Clint are at her side both on and off the clock. Though there is, at the moment, a professional barrier between all of them. She won’t be an intern forever, but they’ll still be friends, _family_ even after she’s promoted. After Sam joins the league of serious journalists. After Clint does… whatever it is Clint decides to do that isn’t actively lusting after Sam.

Kate has people who love her, people to be there for her, but it’s hard to grow roots when replanted. An apple tree in a vineyard, always an outsider, always someone taken in from the cold and separated from a formative part of herself.

The glee between herself and Clint doesn’t last long. The Beast is a dangerous predator again, seemingly on the flip of a coin, and she lurks after Clint. Kate holds her breath— tries not to think of what it will look like if Clint is caught in those jaws. She doesn't want to see that but closing her eyes feels too much like abandoning Clint. She pulls on the feathers like she can tug the beast jaws back from their prey— but she is an insignificant disturbance on a behemoth and she couldn’t stop this feast anymore from up here than if she could hold the jaws open from down there.

It’s not as loud as the foghorn and certainly not as loud as the beast herself, but the airhorn _is_ loud enough, as loud as it needs to be, to pull the beast back into the water and away from Clint’s sprawled form on the sand.

As soon as Kate sees Sam in the speed boat, weaving left and right on the waves of the water, avoiding rocks, and driving one handed with the other hoisted in the air blowing the air horn, the beast does too. The beast’s attention is on Sam and the noise in his grasp. She lunges towards him, creating waves with her frantic movements in the water that should send Sam flying out of the boat. But Sam is smooth as silk and twice as pretty. He doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t let up on the noise as he steers the boat into the skid of each wave. He zigs where the beast zags and she is already wearing out, moving slower, trying to catch him.

The beast roars, there’s anguish at not being able to catch Sam, to put an end to this noise too. Instead of crushing the small boat beneath her claws or large body, her energy seems spent, so she submerges into the deep. Kate takes in as big of a breath as she can before she goes under.

Kate said “I love you” first and it was the only time she’d said it to anyone that wasn’t a family member. They were in America’s apartment, stripped down to their underwear with all the windows open and the curtains drawn trying to keep cool in the sweltering heat. They were running ice cubes up and down each other’s skin, Kate was fascinated by the way America’s skin would twitch just before the ice would touch her. Her body made little tremors in anticipation of the cold. The tiny hairs on her body would rise up, making goosebumps that Kate swears, still, are the cutest thing. It was a sliver of a cube by the time it reached America’s hip and Kate set it inside her belly button and watched it melt into a little pool of water there.

There was something so gentle and precious about that little pool of cold water, the way it rested steady and how the trail of water still stood out against America’s dark skin. Everything about America was precious and glorious and in the end how could Kate not say it? How could she not love her?

Kate tried, at first, not to overuse the phrase, worried that it would lose meaning if uttered too often. But there are so many ways to say “I love you”. Sometimes Kate said it in ASL, sometimes America said it in Spanish, but most times, they just send each other an ice cube emoji and it still melts Kate’s heart every time.

It’s more than that she doesn’t want to die, she doesn’t want to die like this, right now. Everything in her life is just starting, knowing herself has only just begun. It isn’t only unfair if she dies right now, it’s an insult. One Kate refuses to accept and that’s what keeps her breath held, her fingers gripped into the beast’s mane. She can feel her hair swirling, the strands catching on each other, tangling and wrapping around. Her eyes are shut tight, if she opened them it would just be indigo all around and no sign of life. A cold darkness that won’t win out against her.

Just as her lungs start to burn there’s a change in direction, in the pull of the current around her, as the beast rises up again. They break the surface and Kate lets her eyes and mouth fly open, much needed air rushing into her and her dark hair falling in strands over her eyes. She lets go and uses her now free hand to flip her hair out of her face.

The beast appears to be still. Kate wipes her arm across her eyes and looks around. They haven’t moved much— she can still make out Clint on the beach, Sam in his boat, and the two idiots in the water wrestling each other. Clint’s got eyes on her— Kate is really impressed by how long Clint’s been filming. The beast’s head turns and with it Kate’s gaze and it lands on the fairgrounds on the cliff. It’s just dark shapes at first but then it flashes into bright lights and movement. Everything lit up like fireworks and if Kate listens closely she thinks she can hear the distant sound of carnival music. There’s a Ferris Wheel that starts to spin, the lightbulbs making patterns in blue and yellow colors: a star that appears to be spinning in the opposite direction of the ferris wheel itself.

The Beast moves, slower this time, not like her charge onto the beach but with no less conviction in the direction of the lights and music. Kate turns around, finds Clint on the beach, and holds up her hands to sign “Follow” to him.

She drops her hands and resumes her hold on the feathers once she knows they’re too far away to see. She thinks about the Orcas again, of America’s hand sliding the silk handkerchief gently into her palm.

Kate gives the beast a soft stroke, gently petting her, and then another. Partly so she has something to do with her hands, so she can feel useful, but mostly because the beast needs it. A touch of kindness when she’s been shown so little.

*

Molly hasn’t been on very many dates before— or any dates yet. But neither has Gert so in a way this is both the best and the worst date Chase Stein could have engineered. Molly is all about the drama and this crowd has a lot of it but it’s hard to enjoy it without context. It feels more just like angsty teens yelling at each other over nothing in an abandoned lot. Which is what this place basically is: she can’t figure any differences between it and the outside of any Whole Foods after ten p.m.

Ty crouches down, starts to pick the contents of Tandy’s spilled bag up and put them back in. Molly stands over his shoulder and turns on the flashlight and aims it at the bag. Ty looks up at her, manages a smile instead of a full thank you, but she gets the gist.

“Should we go after her?” Chase asks. “It’s probably not a good idea to split up.” Ty doesn’t answer, like maybe he’s frozen in a moment inside of his mind. All he does is silently pick up each item and put it back inside the bag.

The contents of Tandy’s purse don’t hold a gun: there’s a copy of a book Molly doesn’t catch the title of, a bunch of loose tampons, and an entire plastic clutch stuffed with tiny bottles of perfume. Molly can’t imagine anyone needing that much perfume. They look sealed inside of the bag so they haven’t gotten much use.

Gert comes over then, kneels in front of him on the other side of the pile and starts to pick up a few things herself: hand cream, a screwdriver, a ziploc bag of quarters that look kind of off to Molly, and a bottle of water.

“So what are the schools like around here?” Molly asks, because the silence is killing her and the need for a topic change seems obvious. Gert gives her a look like Molly shouldn’t have said anything and she shoots a “what?” back at her. Brooding silence is boring and it’s not like she asked anything inappropriate.

“I’m homeschooled,” Chase answers. Molly keeps the light on the pile and looks behind her at Chase. He has his hands shoved in his pockets, the thumbs poking out, and gives her a shrug. “Tandy dropped out and got her GED a while back. And Ty goes to the Catholic school next town over.”

“You’re Catholic?” Molly asks, looking back down at Ty. She was baptized Catholic but never went through confirmation. She knows all the prayers still— only in Spanish, never seeing a need to translate them. They hold more power for her that way. She can’t sleep at night unless she recites them.

“It’s complicated,” Ty answers, picking up a bottle of aspirin that barely rattles because it’s too full. He looks at it in his palm for a moment and then shoves this into his jeans pocket rather than the bag.

Gert can’t hold in a little laugh and then follows it up with, “God always is.” For whatever reason Ty must agree with this— he at least throws Gert a pitying smile over it.

Ty stands up, puts the bag on over his shoulder and walks where Tandy sprinted off. “Ty?” Chase asks. “What’s-?”

“Generator,” Ty says pointing in the opposite direction of where he’s going before he turns and walks further from them.

Chase is behind him quick, puts his hand on Ty’s shoulder and stops him. Ty pauses, takes a deep breath, and then rolls Chase’s hand off of his shoulder. “We’ll meet up with you guys at the mirror maze,” Ty explains, “just a few minutes. I can’t—” Chase pats him on the back and takes a few steps away from him, pointing his body in the direction of the generator.

“Don’t suppose I can use that screwdriver?” Chase asks. She snickers but Ty and Gert don’t laugh.

“There’s a toolbox in the cruiser,” Molly offers from behind them. Ty and Chase turn back to look at her and she adds, “are we allowed to take stuff from it or not? What if we bring it back?”

“I’ll take it,” Chase says, and without anyone actively holding him back Ty walks off into the dark and it swallows him up like a cloak.

Chase trots over to the car and shuffles around in the back seat. He comes out and holds the tool box up like it’s a prize, mighty and triumphant. When he runs back, he passes them and heads up for the carousel, only slowing down when he realizes that he should try to stick as close to them as possible. Molly has to agree with him: splitting up is a terrible idea.

Gert gives Molly a little nudge with her elbow as they approach the carousel, which has claw marks on it too and Molly feels like that is a thing everyone should be a little more focused on. Like stealing a gun is a bad move, sure, but there are apparently bears or mountain lions running around chomping people up and all these kids are just obsessed with each other.

There’s a giant gargoyle on top of the carousel that Molly can’t tell the details of— it really just looks like a hunched over black ominous shape with wings and a pointy beak. She looks away from it— it makes her feel watched. Her mother told her that gargoyles were meant to ward off evil but her father said they were meant to divert water. Something that scary and ornate must have two purposes, but this carousel isn’t a church so the purpose of putting one on top is simply to scare anyone wondering too close in the dark.

“You doing okay, Molls?” Gert asks. Molly points the flash light up to her face so Gert can see her looking all spooky.

“The. Drama. Of this town. My god,” Molly huffs out and Gert laughs. “I thought they were gonna start fist fighting or making out or something.”

“This place though. It’s not giving you the creeps?” Gert looks around and tugs at her zipper on her jacket. She’s always in that jacket. Molly is struck, suddenly, by the realization that she doesn’t know where Gert got it. Or when.

“It’s a haunted carnival and there are bears on the loose,” Molly says lifting one shoulder and dropping it, “getting the creeps was kind of the point right?”

“It wasn’t a bear,” Chase shouts from up ahead where he’s sat down and camped himself in front of a large metal box which must be the generator.

“¿Crees que el se quitará la camiseta?” Molly asks, switching to Spanish, “Oh Chase,” She swoons, “¡Tu musculos son tan grandes y magros! Pero el musculo mas sexy es tu _cerebro_.”

“Oh, wow, like buzz off, please, kindly, thank you,” Gert says, reaching for Molly’s hat again but not quick enough to try and get it. Molly ducks and bounces out of Gert’s reach anyway. It feels good to move around— she feels like she hasn’t in a long time and there’s so much space out here. Like the dark is an empty open landscape she can dance in.

“Oh Chase,” Molly wails clutching her flashlight over her heart, “¡por favor quédate cerca! ¡Es muy aterrador! ¡Tengo escalofríos!”

“Vas a perder los privilegios de linterna” Gert warns her, rushing at Molly with a slow enough stride that she can start running away from her sister.

“Tienes a tu novio para mantenerla a salvo. Sin esta linterna, estoy indefensa.” Molly makes a circle around the carousel once. As she starts her second lap, Gert changes course and almost snatches her half way from running the opposite direction. Molly is _almost_ caught, that’s why she squeals out a laugh, before she jumps onto the carousel and climbs over what might be a lion or a horse from the feel of the mane.

“Is this normal? Should I put a stop to this?” Chase asks but they both ignore him. They’re having fun. Molly feels a little winded from it— like she hasn’t had fun in such a long time that she’s over exerted herself from it already.

He seems to come to the correct conclusion on his own when neither of them respond. He refocuses on the generator and Molly can hear the rustling of the tools when he opens the box.

Molly climbs up onto a bench and turns the flash light off. She’s panting, her face hurts from smiling, and Gert can probably see her, but still there’s the tension and the fun of _wanting_ in the dark. Of hiding in it while something stalks after her.

Gert moves, following the circle of the ride, and the vague shape of her disappears behind the center of the carousel. The animal seat directly in front of Molly has feathers, they look real— probably glued on or something to give it texture. She looks around to see if any of the other seats have such commitment to tactile design. Everything else is plastic.

Molly looks back at it and rests her hand over the “on” button of the flashlight. She feels frozen. She should just turn the light on, point it at the thing. There’s no reason to be scared but it looks like it’s breathing.

There’s a glint in its eyes and Molly gasps sharply, ready to scream, but only doing so right as Gert grabs her by the sides from behind and starts to tickle her.

It’s a squeal born out of fear but overtaken by joy, especially when Gert wraps her arms around Molly and lifts her up like she’s about to carry her away. It’s been so long since Gert carried her. She remembers asking for “upsies” from Gert more than Staci or Dale. In these arms it feels safe, familiar, a tight comfort of joy that can protect her from monsters in the dark.

Gert sets Molly down and does not take the flashlight from her. They both put their feet on solid ground and then walk together around the carousel until they meet up with Chase on the other side. He’s hard at work already— entirely focused on getting this place lit up.

Molly shines the light on the generator or whatever that Chase is fooling around with and he makes a kind of “aha” noise— probably because fumbling around in the dark was making his promise to turn the power on feel impossible. Molly is still pretty sure it _is_ impossible. There are some torn up wires inside but Chase has already started delicately wrapping them in electrical tape so maybe this kid has more of a shot than she gave him credit for.

“We can go look for them if the lights come on,” Gert suggests. So she must also agree: splitting up was a stupid move. “Or maybe one of us should just wait here if they come back?”

Molly hasn’t felt like much of a third wheel until now. She wonders if she should come up with some excuse to leave Chase and Gert alone but she doesn’t particularly want to follow Ty or walk around this place by herself.

“We _can’t_ split up. That’s horror movie 101,” Chase says right before he shocks or cuts himself on one of those loose wires and yelps.

“He said they’d meet us at the maze right?” Molly reminds them. Molly really does want to check out that mirror maze. She wonders how long Chase is going to fool around with the generator before he gives up on it. She hopes they aren’t here for hours. Uncle James is probably on his way after them by now.

“Ty and Tandy are complicated,” Chase mutters, “they have their own orbit. You gotta let them revolve around each other sometimes.” Molly hopes it isn’t going to be like this all night. Sure, Staci and Dale would be losing their minds if they knew where their kids were right now but so far nothing cool has even happened. Gert insists it was a bear they saw earlier. The only thing Molly has gotten to see so far is what a post apocalyptic student film set looks like. Admittedly, that’s pretty cool, but still. This town is supposed to have dinosaurs.

“They’ll make up,” Chase assures them, “they always do. She just gets kind of weird about her dad.” Chase pauses for a reason Molly can’t name and then adds, “Dads can be hard to deal with.”

“What’s up with the whole dad thing?” Gert asks and Molly’s a little grateful that she didn’t have to be the one to press it— but she’s curious. Gert must be too. She crouches next to the tool box and Chase hands her a wrench without looking and pulls another tool out that Molly can’t name.

“Hey, Molly, can you come closer?” Chase asks. She steps into the ring with the light, her feet slide a little, not expecting such a lack of traction. She almost falls but catches herself on Chase’s shoulder then steadies herself. She takes her hand off of him and shines the flashlight into the mess of wires that can’t possibly be ready to yield to Chase’s ministrations. But once the light is closer and steady on them Chase’s hands quicken and he’s pulling tools out and tossing them when he’s done.

“Parents are weird,” Chase says, he’s still focused on the wires and the tools he swaps in and out of the box. “Dad’s especially. It’s hard to remember what they’re like, how they really were.”

She always wanted to learn about cars. Gert is supposed to be learning to drive soon. Molly isn’t sure why they haven’t started her on it. Maybe some basic parental fear about the two of them getting older and wanting to be out of the house more. There’s so much anxiety in the house now about her and Gert going anywhere.

“It’s like all that bad stuff that happens,” Chase continues, and he speaks with such clarity that Gert’s eyes get all misty. “Bruises fade, you know? Faster than you think and it happens every day, all the time, to the point where it fades out. Like the bad stuff gets normalized in your mind and you can’t pick out one instance because there’s too many.”

Molly realizes she thinks in terms of “the house” but she’s not picturing the one they just moved in to. She’s having trouble, suddenly, trying to pull out details of what their house looks like. She thinks she remembers something specific, a collection of precious moments dolls set up in a glass case with a mirror’d backing— but that’s not Staci and Dale’s. That’s Molly’s mom’s and she remembers reaching in just to hold them and feel the strange scratch of the ceramic clay. Molly remembers that sensation in her hands but she must have been just a baby then.

“So your mind forgets that stuff, instead it settles into your body. Your body remembers to be afraid, to flinch or to keep the TV volume down.” Chase sets the pliers next to him and then fishes around in the tool box until he pulls a wrench out. “So then in your head, all you’ve got is the good stuff.”

There’s something guilt wrenching about remembering the furniture of her parent’s house more than their faces. She thinks she can conjure them up sometimes, on her own without looking at pictures or home movies or anything, but other times they’re just a disembodied collection of voices slipping in and out of her as she tries to hold onto any of them.

“And that good stuff is so rare that it sticks out and it starts to warp how you see him. Like your mind can’t rectify all the nice stuff it remembers with the way your body is afraid of him.” The wrench is too big so he sets it back in the box and then pulls the bottom drawer of it out— like the thing has a hidden compartment. All tool boxes must have some variation of that, otherwise Molly doesn’t see how Chase could have known about it.

She remembers “Buenas noches, Luna” with perfect clarity. Gert read it to her, in the original Spanish, and somewhere tucked into the boxes of their new house Molly knows the book is still there. She should blow the dust off and look through it. Reading it brings their voices back— like she’ll never hear the words in any other tongue. It will always be her mother’s soft “buenas noches ratoncito” and her father’s “buenas noches, habitación”.

“And you start to think sometimes that maybe you were the problem. Maybe if you’d kept your voice down or studied more it wouldn't have been so bad. In fact, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe you were just sensitive or exaggerating.” It’s for socket wrenches, the little drawer. Chase hovers his fingers over each size until he finds the one he needs, the one that will fit into the panel, and clips it on before returning his attention to the carousel.

Molly realizes her grip has gone a little slack on the flashlight so she switches arms and re-aims it at Chase’s work.

“It’s hard to hate your parents. It’s hard to remember that they’re bad people or they did bad things.” The noise of the socket wrench working, a high pitched zipping noise, makes Molly’s teeth hurt. It’s an unpleasant sound but she doesn’t have to hear it for long. Chase finishes his work with it and tosses it lazily back into the bottom drawer. “They’re a part of you— and trying to hate one of them is like trying to hate part of yourself.”

“A war against yourself can not be won,” Molly adds. She doesn't know where it came from but she couldn’t have kept the words in if she’d tried. They slide from her like the beam from the flashlight slips in her grip— steady and slow without realizing it.

“I need something to jump start it,” Chase says, standing up and brushing his hands off on his jeans. Gert is so obviously checking him out Molly wants to find a fire hose and wash her down she’s so thirsty.

“Cables in the cop cruiser?” Molly suggests. Chase snaps his fingers and points to Molly.

“Perfect! The keys are in there right? I’ll drive it up to here and then we can give it a go.” Chase takes a few steps into the dark and then stops and turns back to them. “Should we all stick together, though?”

“I’m not sure I want to sit in on an actual grand theft auto,” Gert replies. Molly laughs a little at that.

“Okay, weird spot to draw the line,” Molly says. Chase fumbles for a moment trying to pick the right response but when he doesn’t find it he just smiles awkwardly and then vanishes into the night.

“This place feels familiar,” Gert says once Chase is out of earshot— or what she must assume is ear shot. “Like not in a good way.”

Molly shutters and shines the flash light around the place, turning is a slow circle to catch as much of a panoramic view of their surroundings as possible. “What’s our house look like? The old one,” Molly asks and her lungs feel cold with the burning question now outside of her.

“Metal,” Gert says. Molly looks at her and she has her eyes closed and is rubbing deep into her temple. “I remember a lot of metal. Tables and chairs. Cages. Locks.”

“That sounds like a torture chamber,” Molly says, and what’s worse is that it sounds right, familiar. As Gert describes the place in vague words, Molly is snatching images up of those things that feel as real and clear to her as the precious moments dolls. As real as Buenas Noches, Luna and the prayers she can’t have possibly memorized as a baby.

“Sounds. Lots of different sounds like all these screams and whispers,” Gert goes on and Molly can see a vein pulsing in her sister’s temple with the strain to grab on to memories but all she can reach are sensations.

“Gert?” Molly feels dizzy all of a sudden and she leans closer into her sister’s space in case she faints. She feels lightheaded. What does her mother’s face look like?

There’s a loud roar of an engine that fires up and Molly leaps into the air both from the shock of the loud noise and the fear that it’s the bear coming to eat them. The headlights come on shining into both of their eyes. Gert lifts her hand to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness and Molly turns the flash light off.

Chase pulls the car up slow. Molly turns around to look at the carousel in better lighting, some of the animals are missing. She could have sworn she saw more. Where’s the bird with feathers?

Chase parks the cruiser and then climbs out of the driver’s side window instead of just opening the door like a normal person. He lifts himself out on the hood and his feet kick dust up into the air when he lands heavy on the ground.

When Chase comes around to the front of the cruiser and pops the hood, he makes a dark silhouette in between the two headlights. The engine is still running— Chase doesn’t stand there long before he realizes he needs the jumper cables. He rushes to the trunk so quick he slides a little in his shoes and has to catch himself on the side of the car. He spares a quick glance back at them, probably to see if they saw that— which Molly confirms for him by snickering and giving a little wave.

The jumper cables are in a little circular bag that Chase unzips and tosses aside without a second thought before he’s hooking things up.

For some reason, in the few moments it takes Chase to walk the sparking cables from the engine to the generator, her heartbeat quickens. It’s so fast she feels dizzy. They shouldn’t turn it on. Something bad is going to happen.

She doesn’t know what. It doesn’t matter. Once Chase clicks them onto the carousel everything lights up and under her breath Molly says a prayer. Something for mercy and guidance— even with the lights on all around them she feels like something else is still moving in the dark.

*

James remembers always wanting a smoke after a shower. The walls around him were always clinical white but he imagined he saw his mother’s bathroom. Sometimes he would picture the bathroom at the cottage, but in those daydreams, Steve always catches him having a smoke and things take a heated turn from there. James always being fresh from the shower and all; he can conjure a smell just from memory.

He’s not sure how he knows Steve— they’ve dug so much of that out of him but there’s pain and pleasure resting in the memory of his body, and it’s a physical memory but no less powerful. His muscles conjure Steve, a ghost that’s warm and possessing James’ body in his only private moments. He keeps these to himself anyhow— he wouldn’t want them to scrape that out.

Being complimented makes James blush, and it’s sweet how Steve knows that but wicked when he capitalizes on it. James doesn’t know the exact voice, but he feels hot breath in his ear and the rumble of a laugh underneath hunger.

”Look at you,” Steve says, and James buries his face in Steve’s chest so he can’t catch him blushing. Steve holds James chin in one hand and forces him to look up, so Steve can admire his face. “How’d I get so lucky?” and James would preen under the attention. “Prettiest boy in the world.” those words take James to a floating place he can sit in for hours. There’s a kind of bliss he’s allowed if only it involves sitting still in his cell for hours.

This habit they couldn’t delete or transform it because Staci and Dale didn’t watch him in the shower. They didn’t know about it so there was no time or effort made to hide this behind Fenoff’s lies. With Steve squeezing him while he splashes in the water— he needs to swim to her. Bex needs him. She’s screaming and he feels angry and desperate. Splashing in the cold, struggling, and he remembers wanting to be held down by Steve so desperately which makes no sense because he _just_ met Steve. Hadn’t he?

“Can’t you hear her?” James sobs— he’s not sure when he started crying but all of him is wet anyhow as he wrestles against Steve in the water. “She needs me.” he’ll never outmatch Steve, he could hold Bucky with a look, not to mention his entire body.

Steve’s words in James’ ears are too soft and too close that it breaks something in his throat that makes James feel like his voice is gone. “I’ve got you,” Steve promises, “I’m here now, Buck.”

It’s so hard to focus. Steve’s here now but he was always haunting James before, even if he didn’t have these arms around him he could _feel_ Steve. He knew when he was alone and sometimes he’d wake up in the night trying to walk out of his cell to be with Steve.

James’ own heartbeat had a subtle thump in it that ached to _be_ the ghost so he could walk through walls and find Steve in his loneliness.

The foghorn feels like a knot slipping loose in his heart and he remembers Bex, his sister, his twin sister who never married or had children. He remembers their mother and how she used to be up at six everyday no matter how late into the night she might have been up.

Bucky remembers getting drunk on their birthday and fooling around with her makeup. He remembers sleepwalking and waking up waist deep in the water and looking for her in the waves. He remembers the boat that picked him up and then waited seven years before they took him back to his Ma’s house.

He doesn’t remember everything, all of Bucky Barnes’s life is a lot to ask for in one night after seven years. But he remembers his family— he remembers how Pierce has hurt them. When the lights come on at the Fairgrounds, he remembers all the entrances, the exits, and the torment.

He remembers and he suffers. His sister suffers too. The lights signal that the lab still has power, can still torture and take. The ferris wheel lights up in all red, orange, and yellow cycling through the pattern like a sunrise. To Bucky, the colors signify something different.

He’s going to burn it to the ground.

*

The place is creepier with all the lights on. Molly did not think that could be possible and yet here she stands in front of a rusted carousel that has more headless ceramic animals on it than not. It doesn’t start spinning; Chase lets the engine run for a little bit before he disconnects the cables and the thing can hold a charge on it’s own. Once the cables are off, he steps onto the carousel and pulls a lever that makes it spin.

Spinning is worse because now the headless animals are moving up and down and circling to the tune of “Tiger Rag” too fast while the music plays distorted and too slow. The sound of the accordion and drums echoes throughout the once quiet fairgrounds and now it feels like the wailing of ghosts. She takes the ends of her hat and tugs them down further over her ears so the music has to go through the knitted layers and her thick curls to reach her.

Molly looks up to see the gargoyle in the light but it’s not there. There’s nothing but a bright bulb flickering in time to the slowed organ music that at reguler tempo is probably quite jolly and not the backing track to a murder party.

She steps closer to Gert. She wants to leave this place. She doesn’t really want to go home but she suddenly doesn’t want to be here anymore. She’s scared Gert might ask her to leave, to give her and Chase some privacy, but her sister instead takes off her green army jacket and wraps it around Molly’s shoulders. She’s not cold but the action eases the shivering.

Gert is here. Gert wouldn’t make her leave. She wouldn’t make her stand alone in this spooky place— certainly not just to get some necking in. Molly feels at ease knowing Gert is here. She’s glad she didn’t come into this place by herself— she’s glad that none of them did.

“I should clean all of this stuff up,” Chase says, rolling up the cables and then gesturing to the tool box as it comes around on the carousel again before moving out of sight in the slow circular path. “Do you guys want to head up to the mirror place? Ty and Tandy are probably there by now.”

“What happened to not splitting up?” Gert asks, a little accusatory, more than Molly thinks is strictly warranted for the question.

“It’s just up there,” Chase waves in the general direction of the mirror maze which is, to be fair, close enough that they can see it now that the lights are on. “I can catch up really quickly, I’m sure. Besides you guys are probably bored, right?”

“Bored is not the exact word,” Molly says looking again up at the top of the carousel where no menacing gargoyle sits. She couldn’t have imagined it, could she? Maybe it had just been a very convincingly shaped dark cloud in the sky line that she mistook for a corporeal statue.

Chase shuts the hood of the cruiser and comes around the back to toss the cables into the trunk where they belong. He seems determined to put everything back in its proper place; maybe so it looks like no one disturbed the scene if that cop wonders back.

That doesn’t sit easy in Molly’s stomach either, not just that there is an unmanned cruiser there but that with the place lit up there’s still no sign of the cop. There aren’t even foot tracks on the ground that show he walked off somewhere.

Molly hops back up on the carousel. It takes a few moments before she finds an empty space to jump onto, and a few more to muster up strength to jump. She slides a little on the metal but catches herself on a plastic camel and is righted in a moment. She turns and walks the opposite direction of the turn of the carousel and her pace is quick enough that she makes a little progress against the motion.

Chase is in the cruiser again, the engine fired up and his arm over the backrest as he reverses out and tries to stay steady on the path of track marks in the dirt. Molly makes a little game out of touching the heads of each plastic animal, the ones that are still in mostly one piece anyway. Someone went claws and teeth all over this ride and as she looks out at the rest of the grounds this isn’t the only one. The place is more than just broken down or old— it’s been massacred. Like wild animals went at it with vengeance, the wild trying to lay claim to this abandoned man-made carnival.

She notes an elephant, a pegasus with a horn, a tiger, but doesn’t find that bird like one she stood toe to toe with when the lights were out. She hasn’t completed the circle yet but she could have sworn it was here before. There are spaces missing animals and animals missing parts— it’s not like the thing could have gotten up and walked out anymore than the gargoyle would have flown off but it feels wrong that something could be there one second and gone the next without a sound.

Her hand touches the top of a large, female lion and she stills. It’s got real fur on this one and that’s strange. The bird had had real feathers but every other plastic animal has been just that: lifeless and smooth without texture or much shape to it. This fur is soft and warm. She pets down the head to the neck, and then follows it onto the back. This one is big, bigger than the others, and she doesn’t so much as hear a low purr as feel one beneath her fingers.

She stops— she feels frozen, and once her hand isn’t petting it anymore the creature _moves_ and the purr morphs into a snarl. Molly screams and skitters backwards, hitting up against the back end of a horse.

It’s real. The lion is large and _real_ with blood caked onto it’s two protruding teeth and the lips pulled back to show even more. She screams again and the lion lunges at her. Molly dives out of the way, onto the sturdy safety of the dusty ground and the lion disappears around the corner of the carousel, still in motion, still playing that awful slowed accordion music.

Gert is there in a flash, probably was never far enough away from Molly to begin with, trying to stay at her side despite the permission to split up. She scoops Molly up from the ground and holds her face in her hands.

“What happened?” Gert asks, frantically checking Molly for injuries. “Did you fall? Anything broken?”

Molly points at the carousel, at the lion that has run back towards them and is crouching, ready to leap, and screams, “Bear!” Because for some reason that word feels more accurate. She’s never seen a real lion, she’s pretty sure, can’t bring up any memories of trips to the zoo— only flashes of her on the other side of one, the bars of a cage and the harsh smell of metal. She knows lions are bigger in real life, that seeing them on TV isn’t the same but this lion is _big_. Too big to be a lion so in the moment all her brain can provide for her screaming is “bear”.

Gert looks behind just in time to see the predator leap up and at them, claws extended and mouth open to roar, to bite, to kill. Gert yelps but still manages to move, grabbing Molly by the arm and running as fast as she can out of the way. The lion lands in the dirt, kicking up dust onto its face that it only laps up with its tongue.

They’re running, faster than Molly ever has before, but she can’t help looking back to see if they’re being chased. They are and the lion is gaining on them.

“Gert,” Molly yells, “we can’t out run her.”

Gert glances back, confirms Molly is correct, and then changes course heading for a ferris wheel that is on, moving, and blinking in a star pattern. Molly can run without Gert pulling her along but she doesn’t drop hands anyway, they can’t lose each other in the chase. If one of them slows then they’ll end up like those gazelle on Discovery Channel that fall back from the herd and become the meal of the predator.

Gert jumps onto the platform of the ride but the next basket that comes down is broken and swinging. Molly takes charge of the course now, jumping onto the lattice work of the ferris wheel and climbing as soon as she finds footing. Gert follows her lead, her doc martens clanging on the metal as she climbs the spinning metal. The lion doesn’t let the ferris wheel stop her. She jumps into the air, her claws and limbs catching but not able to find a grip to hold. She falls but rights herself again in no time and then begins to pace the wheel.

It turns and they both stop climbing as they reach the highest point. Molly closes her eyes— they’re too high up— and clings with all of her limbs to the lattice of the ferris wheel. She feels sick with the slow spinning and then her stomach drops into her brain when they end upside down with the turn of the ride.

Molly peaks through her eyes and then opens them wide to see the Lion pacing, bidding it’s time until they come down again. They can’t just keep climbing, Molly isn’t sure her grip or her footing will hold if she keeps having to move. Her palms already feel sweaty. Gert is shaking, the little tremors of a panic attack coming on and Molly tries not to picture her sister losing grip and falling.

They descend and the lion’s jaws open wide in a roar, or maybe to welcome them inside. Molly starts a prayer— her palms burn from holding too tight and then there is an answer to her request. Not exactly divine intervention but Molly doesn’t know what else to call it.

It’s Chase, driving the cop cruiser like a maniac, dead on into the lion. Molly hears bones snap and the tumbling thuds as the lion smashes into the bumper, breaks the wind shield, and then rolls several times over the top of the car before landing in a pile of dirt and blood at the back of the cruiser.

The car comes to a halt. The engine is still running. The hood of the car is within their reach now so when Gert drops and lands on the hood Molly follows suit.

Chase stands up in his seat and leans out of the driver’s side window, looking back at the beast on the ground. It’s still moving, each labored breath a growl as it tries to stand up on what must be, minimum, one broken paw.

“Did I get it?” Chase asks, frantic and panting.

“Reverse,” Molly shouts, putting her hand on the top of Chase’s head and shoving him back down inside the car, “reverse, reverse, reverse!”

Chase takes the hint on the second repetition of the command and throws the gear shift into R. The wheels spin for a moment as he slams his foot on the accelerator before it lurches back. Molly keeps hold on the hood but Gert slips and slides down to the windshield.

The lion is, unfortunately, ready for the cruiser this time and instead of being caught under the wheels, it leaps with absolute precision up onto the car and Molly is face to teeth with it again.

Gert grabs her by the ankle and pulls her out of the snapping jaws just in time. Molly looks through the windshield and catches Chase’s mouth open in a permanent scream of expletives that she doesn’t quite catch.

He forces the steering wheel all the way over to the left and the car spins wildly. Gert hangs onto the hood and Molly’s ankle so neither of them slide off all the way. But the lion doesn’t have any traction at all on top so it skids and flies off. They spin more times than Molly would have liked. He slams the break, or tries to. His foot pounds down on it in the car but it doesn’t stop. The momentum is too great to halt the spin. The only thing that can stop the cruiser is the roller coast they slam into. Gert stands quickly and pulls Molly with her off the other end of the car. Chase’s driver side door is pinned and Molly doesn’t want to think about what the creaking coming from the rusty roller coaster above them means. They come to the passenger’s side door, and together, they’re able to wrench it open. Chase scrambles out, takes hold of both of their arms, and runs in a random direction away from the cruiser.

The lion is coming up at them again, running fast but not as much. Molly glances and sees that her front paw is definitely bruised if not fully broken but it isn’t enough to slow her down to a pace the three of them can compete with.

“Not a bear,” Chase shouts and dives for the carts at the front of the roller coaster. He all but shoves Gert and Molly into it.

“Are you serious right now?” Gert yells back at him as he clambers inside the box of the ride too. It’s a tight fit, these were clearly not made to hold more than two people at a time. It hardly matters with the lion ready to leap at them again mid-run.

Molly’s hands find the lever on the other side and she throws it back. The ride does nothing. It creaks but the wheels don’t move so Molly pushes and pulls at it again several more times. It’s too old, too rusted.

The lion is close enough now to leap, Molly cowers away from it. In a move that’s almost too fast to register, Gert slides in front of her and kicks her doc martens out, smashing the lion in the face. It doesn’t roll away like with the car but the force of those two objects moving towards each other at that speed is enough to make the lion yowl and fall back.

Chase pulls Molly up and out of the cart, points to the track of the roller coaster and shouts “climb” before giving her another push. He doesn’t follow right after her, instead he grabs Gert and does the same thing with her. This is slightly easier than the ferris wheel, if not for the single direction then for the lack of movement. Chase isn’t following them. He jumps out of the cart and tries to pull the lever out of its casing.

The earth shakes, then, in the distance Molly hears a sound like a large body crashing against stone. It isn’t enough to shake them loose from the ride, but the movement makes it feel like an almost thing.

A combination of rusted metal, the great shaking of the ground, and sheer concentrated power of will brings the sharp stick of metal out of it’s holding place and Chase swings it wildly at the lion. She doesn’t leap for him, she slows down and prowls back and forth, occasionally swatting at him and making him swing his makeshift bludgeon wildly. Molly stops climbing and Gert comes up next to her.

“We can’t leave him,” Molly says and Gert nods, gnawing on her lip as she looks down at the scene. “What do we do?” Molly shouts.

Gert looks around but there’s nothing. They’re high up on the roller coaster, too high to jump down, and even if they did, they don’t have a weapon like Chase almost does. Molly isn’t sure how long he can keep the lion at bay with that move but his energy seems to be waning even now.

With no other obvious options, Gert screams. Molly joins in, their screams rising high enough to meet each other and joining as if twisting in to make one big sound. Molly feels her throat burn, but when she runs out of breath, she just inhales deep again and screams as loud as her body will let her.

There’s something Molly’s body remembers that her mind can’t put pictures to. If she screams Uncle James will come. He always knows to find them. He always saves them. She knows this in the burn of her vocal chords and the pounding of her heart.

The lion jumps and grabs the metal rod in it’s jaws. Chase makes a valiant effort to hold onto his only defense but when the lion swats at him her claws taste blood and he drops it.

She shakes her body and drops the metal from her mouth and resumes her prowl towards him. Chase scrambles up, trips a few times but then starts his climb up the roller coaster on the opposite side. He’s trying to lead the lion away from the two of them. He’s athletic and strong so he makes it upwards faster than Molly and Gert did, but this predator is made for climbing, and even on a hurt paw, she steps with grace and speeds up the path that Chase climbs.

It’s not uncle James that comes. It’s something, or someone, that Molly fears is worse as familiarity without memory forms in the back of her mind. She and Gert both stop screaming.

Out from the vast wasteland of the fair grounds, into the cotton candy light of the rides, steps a bird-like monster on two legs.

The lion turns her gaze off of Chase and to the velociraptor on the ground. The dinosaur squawks at the lion and she roars in return.

Not deterred, it opens its beak and screeches into the air. Something about it feels like a reply to Molly and Gert’s screams.

The dinosaur locks eyes with the cat and readies for a fight.

*

Thankfully, the Beast of McDunn doesn’t dive under the water again. She moves through the waves with one single goal: the lights of the fair grounds in the distance. Kate admits that it’s probably very inappropriate but she could either, one: die, or two: never get a chance like this again, so she sits up tall on the dinosaur’s back, throws her fist in the air, and screams “yeah” like she’s Bastian at the end of Never Ending Story. It’s fun. It’s really fun and there’s no one around to judge her so she does it a few more times. Something about shouting releases tension from her body and she finds herself less scared and worried about what’s going to happen next.

She glances behind them and sees the light of Sam and Clint’s speed boat bouncing on the waves. Distant, but not lost and definitely coming after her. Honestly, this situation couldn’t be going better for her all things considered. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and presses at the lock screen but it doesn’t respond to her. It’s too wet which means that her sound equipment probably is too.

She realizes then that she jumped from the lighthouse without the equipment. She’s just going to have to pay extra close attention to everything that happens from here on out then so she can report on it properly. That shouldn’t be too hard since Clint has footage and there’s nothing in the world more interesting than what is happening to her right now.

As they draw nearer to the cliff side it comes into perspective for Kate: the beast is not as tall as the cliffside itself, but she is big enough. She lunges at the cliff, claws up and out and when she lands against it the whole place shakes. Kate hangs on, her foot slipping only once but finding footing again quickly.

They’re still for a moment and then they are rising as the beast claws her way up the side of the cliff. Kate does not foresee this working out for either of them but she is little more than a flea along for this crazy ride and she couldn’t jump off now and live even if she wanted to.

So Kate climbs too, her old gymnastics training buried in her body and rearing up to save her life again today. Derek had said all those classes and hobbies were stupid— insisted that Kate pick one and stick with it rather than master one and then swapping to another because she was bored. There’s some from her earlier days that she’s sure she can’t do well anymore, years of disinterest is bound to rust some skills away like swimming and ballroom. But she’s got fencing and a few martial arts courses under her belt that are going to save her life today, she’s sure of it.

America hadn’t believed that Kate used to throw knives or swing on a trapeze until she showed her. It wasn’t easy getting a pass into the only gym in New York that had that kind of set up but ultimately worth it considering America couldn’t keep her eyes off of Kate as she swung from pivot to pivot with grace and lithe movements. Couldn’t keep her hands off of Kate afterwards too.

So it’s this thought, the memory of America’s eyes sparkling with heat and adoration, that Kate focuses on and keeps in mind as she climbs up the face of the beast and steadies herself to jump. She can’t take too long, like most things in her life it’s better to act than wait, better to let muscle memory save her than over thinking. So once she sees a rock she can grab onto she jumps for it.

Her hand catches it and her feet skid and stop, keeping her upright. She moves along the cliff, feet finding purchase and hands finding protruding rocks to climb with. It’s just like rock climbing, she reminds herself. In fact, it is rock climbing exactly, only she doesn’t have equipment or a spotter and there are sharp rocks at the bottom.

America smiling and asking her to “do another flip”: that’s the image she keeps at the front of her mind. If America doesn’t get angry with Kate for doing so many dangerous things in a row, if she lets Kate get through the story without shaking her and calling her an idiot, Kate is sure she’s going to get some action. Maybe even some “I’m so glad you aren’t dead” action which she assumes is top tier action.

Just up to the right and quite a long climb Kate sees an opening that is spilling water out. She can’t climb directly under it, the force of the water would almost certainly over power her and send her to the depths, but she can move diagonally towards it and swing herself inside. The water is coming from somewhere so once there she can follow it back, find where it leads out.

She keeps checking on the beast as the large creatures scrambles up, mouth open without speaking, but doesn’t make any progress. It’s too high a climb and her body isn’t built for climbing. Kate notes how, despite this, the beast does move with her legs and her claws as if she were human— imitating and failing at the way Kate climbs the side of the cliff.

Eventually the body tires, or maybe she just lost footing, but the beast gives up her grip on the cliff and instead slides down, down, down into the ocean.

The waves crash against the rocks and once she’s back in the water, her natural element, she slides even further in until she disappears into the waves.

Kate doesn’t see how it’s possible for something so big to vanish completely but she’s only submerged a few moments before Kate loses track of the beast entirely.

Kate looks back up at her goal, the man made cave with water spilling out and continues upwards. She can make it. She’s not even tired. If she’s sweating she can’t tell because she’s still pretty wet from her trip under the waves. The air up here is drying her, whipping the black strands of her hair up and sometimes into her face.

Kate is focused. Determined. She can make it. It’s going to be a long climb but—

There’s a screech in the air from behind her and she looks around frantically. Her hair makes it hard, plus it’s still dark and Kate can’t orientate herself properly yet. She hears the screeching again and takes one hand off of the cliff to push her hair away from her face.

Just as she sees it, it hits her, knocking her from the cliffside and sending her plummeting. She thinks of the net under her, and America sitting on it, gazing up as Kate swung through the air. The comfort Kate felt of knowing, not just that the net was there, but that America was too. They kissed so long on the net that they both had the marks pressed into randoms parts of their bodies.

The thing, a pterodactyl Kate guessed from the way it was shaped against the moon, spread its wings out before her and she thought of dragons breathing fire and swallowing virgins whole.

It dives for her, wings pulling back and turning its body into a bullet, plunging faster than Kate is. Then, when the timing is right, it spreads its wings, extends its clawed feet, and catches her like an owl seizes a mouse from the forest floor.

It holds tight to her, and she feels too constricted to scream. It flaps its wings and changes trajectory taking them up the cliff and deep into the mouth of a hidden cave.

Going limp makes it easier for the bird to carry her back to its nest, whatever dark crevice of the cliff side that is in. All things considered, it’s impressive that Kate hasn’t passed out until this moment.

*

Finding Tandy is easy. She didn’t go far and even in the dark Ty can spot her after only a few minutes. She’s at the mouth of a ride with the title “Tunnel of Love” in chipped paint above it. The ride looks like a black hole, swallowing all light that dares to enter it, but on top there're hearts and arrows. There’s a little boat in the shape of a swan that bobs up and down in the oily water.

There’s a big heart with two swords crossed through it. Tandy is stacking crates she’s found and trying to build a tower up to it. Ty walks up near her and leans on the swan boat— he’s hesitant at first because the whole ride seems so dirty and rusted but he decides his clothes are going to need a double wash at this point anyway so there’s no sense in worrying about it now.

“What are you doing?” Ty asks. She doesn’t jump— she knew he was there; she was just choosing not to speak to him. He hopes that doesn’t last long. He’s tired of them not talking with each other.

“Those swords,” Tandy answers, pointing up to where they’re stabbed through the heart, “they’re not bolted in or anything. I want to see if I can pull them out.”

“Why?” Ty asks.

She looks at him and in a way that surprises and relieves him she smiles. “Because then I’ll have two cool swords.”

He smiles back. “You remember doing sword fights in my backyard?” He asks.

“Only every day of summer for years,” She replies, climbing up onto two crates that can hold her weight but don’t look balanced. He stands up from the swan boat, ready to catch her if she loses balance. “You were obsessed with Zorro,” She reminds him.

“ _I_ was obsessed?” Ty laughs, “You’re the one who made me watch DragonHeart a million times. Don’t act like sword fighting is my thing.”

They used to watch them back to back in The Diner, Ty always giving her a boost or holding the step stool steady so Tandy could slide the tapes into the VCR.

Tandy leans her body too far to the left and Ty is sure she’s about to fall but her hand grasps the handle of the sword and she stays upright. She pulls it out in one fluid movement, no resistance from the metal display like it's an Excalibur and has been waiting for her this whole time.

She tosses the sword down and then climbs off of the crates slowly. Once she’s on solid ground and standing in front of him it feels too quiet. Something heavy is weighing them down and he’d take the load off of her if she’d only tell him what it is.

“I couldn’t find it,” She says, and her eyes won’t meet his so it’s a moment before he knows what she means. She takes in a shaky breath and then looks him in the eyes— it feels too sudden to him. He wasn’t ready to see her peer into him so deeply. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had but I did look for the gun. Tore up most of the cruiser going through it.”

He cringes but he doesn’t say anything. It’s not worse than her stealing the gun but it’s not better, not after the way she blew up at him about it. Not after the way he blew up right back. “Why?” is what he asks instead.

He thinks, for a split second, that she’s going to make a similar joke to the sword thing but she stops herself and shrugs. “I just want to take things from him,” she admits and then, softer like this part is a secret, “I want to take power away from him.”

“You know that you can’t, right?” He asks. She looks insulted but she doesn’t snap at him— it’s the quiet indignation of knowing he’s right. She sighs.

“I don’t feel like trying should hurt. I want him to just go away.” She kicks one of the crates, not with much force— maybe she just needed to feel like she could have an impact on something.

“It makes things worse,” He rests his hand on her messenger bag still slung across his shoulder and he feels the small vials of perfume that she’s stolen and never used. “Sometimes pulling stunts like that makes things worse.”

“I’m sorry,” She lets out a heavy sigh and takes a step closer to him before she asks, “can I hug you?”

He thinks about it, an instinct in him makes him glance around first but there’s no danger in the quiet darkness. They’re alone again. No one to get their hackles raised if they see them embracing. He nods and without missing a beat she slides her arms around his torso, places her face against his chest, and squeezes him. He puts one arm around her and rests his chin on the top of her head.

“Ty?” She says, just like before on the beach— he’s not sure what to do this time. He wants her to say it, whatever it is. He holds his breath and only exhales when she finally says, “Why don’t we tell each other things anymore?”

It’s a gut punch, not because it isn’t true, but because it’s confirmation that she feels it too: that expanding distance between them. The schism they’re forced to cross now just to be together. It wasn’t always there— or maybe it’s not something children can see. Maybe they were naive and growing up has opened their eyes.

“I don’t know,” He answers, voice deep and solemn. He hugs her a little tighter. “I’m scared we’ll fight. And then I’ll leave. And that will be the last thing we said to each other.”

He feels the catalog in his spine slide open, backwards, and fall out of him. He doesn’t need to carry the weight anymore if he dumps it out. It’s the first time he’s said anything out loud to her about him leaving.

“Me too,” she sighs. There’s a relief in knowing she can feel it, that she _does_ feel it, and that even though he hadn’t said anything she was able to pick up on it. She can read him and it feels so comforting to be known without speaking, sometimes. “I have to tell you something.”

There’s the slightest hitch in her voice but when she pulls back from him and they meet eyes she isn’t crying. There’s some wetness at the corners of her eyes but nothing has spilled over. He wants to swipe the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, wipe away tears that aren’t there. Instead he just waits, perfectly still so as not to spook her.

“I know about NYU,” She says, finally, and in the same moment that it breaks his heart that he didn’t tell her, it also eases the weight in his spine. Another catalog of anxiety shred and thrown out— he doesn’t need to worry about that aspect of it anymore.

“I haven’t made a decision,” he says and knows, suddenly, why it’s so easy for her to lie sometimes. He didn’t even plan on that it just leaped out of him, easier than the truth ever has.

Now she looks mad. She huffs, rolls her eyes, and pulls out of the hug from him. She picks the sword up from the ground and tosses it into the swan boat. Then she grabs one of the crates and tosses it to the other side of the stream. It lands and makes an unpleasant noise of wood skidding on concrete before she picks up another and tosses it too.

“Yeah you have,” She says. He’s not as good a liar as her, or maybe she just knows him better than that. “You need to go, Ty. You can’t stay in this tar pit all your life. You want to leave.” She hops the distance but doesn’t quite make it, her left foot landing in the murky water and she grimaces at her now soaked sock and shoe.

“I’ve got people who need me here,” He says. She looks up and sneers at him, like she’s angry about him saying that more than she is about half her leg being soaked in gross tunnel of love water.

“Don’t make it about that,” She’s so angry and he’s a little taken aback. She knows he means her but she’s not flattered like he thought she might be. He’s made her mad. She crosses her arms like she wants to pull into herself. Her lip shakes with honesty. “I’m not going to act like this town is great. I’m not going to pretend my life doesn’t suck a lot of the time.”

He feels he needs to move but he doesn’t want to interrupt her, even if she’s taking a little while to continue. He picks up a third crate and tosses it over to her. She catches it and holds it in front of her body like a barrier, a shield. “But that’s not on you. I don’t want it to be on you.”

He steps into the swan boat and then out again on the other side and notes how she seems a little annoyed that she hadn’t thought of that and she’s got a cold wet foot to show for it.

He steps off and she lowers the crate— no barriers between them now. She’s raw and open and he would be scared if it were anyone else.

“You don’t always gotta be the one who throws the brick, Ty,” Still no tears but her voice cracks around it. He remembers the first words she ever said to him, huddled together under her dad’s car. He’d fallen asleep down there, waiting for Billy to come back, for anyone to come looking for him, and she tapped him on the shoulder until he woke up.

“Who else is gonna do it?” He realizes that her giving him permission not to worry about her doesn’t ease most of the fear in his body. It wasn’t just about her— he’s scared of so many things and it feels hard to be brave if he can’t hide behind this one.

“I don’t know,” She scoffs, “Maybe an adult. Like a teacher or a social worker or hell, how about my own damn mother?” He was scared when he woke up under the car, too afraid to move because Billy had said to wait. He didn’t know what to do and he would have laid there under that car forever if Tandy hadn’t taken his hand and made him crawl out with her.

The lights come on in a flash so sudden that Tandy winces and Ty covers his eyes. It doesn’t give him a headache but it’s a little while to adjust to the sudden cotton candy brightness of a resurrected amusement park. The moon light had been subtle and comforting, a cool blue to light their faces. Now everything is too bright, too happy, a kind of overkill of whimsy that he hates. Tandy doesn’t look like she likes it either.

“Guess Chase can do anything if he likes a girl enough,” Ty jokes, scanning the park around them. The tunnel is still dark but there are pink lights under the water that follow the track into the dark. He wonders what’s in there or if it really is just a dark and dank hole for people to kiss in.

“I resent her, you know?” Tandy still speaks and holds herself like they’re in the quiet darkness. She looks up at the heart with one sword still tucked into it. It doesn’t seem as old or rusty with the lights on. “My mom. She’s been through so much, and I have to take care of her. But I’m tired and it’s hard. I hate her in this way that feels so unfair— I don’t want you to feel like that about me. I don’t want you to do that for me.”

She asked if he was an angel. She thought he was a blessed and holy being sleeping quietly next to her under a car on sticky asphalt, dried blood on his arm from the glass. First words matter the way last words do and he’ll never forget that she assumed from the get go that he was a shining and glorious hero come to save her.

“I’m scared,” He says, and that’s a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying. He wishes he could explain better, and he tries but the things are jumbled together. “I’m scared of so many things I don’t even know if I could name them all. I feel like I can’t move— I’m stuck and frozen in fear and I just want to _run_ but I can’t.”

He’s not weighed down so much as he’s paralyzed and sinking slow. He thinks about the mastodons and saber tooth tigers stuck in tar pits in Los Angeles. Mighty and dying because they can’t escape the thing that holds them down. He’s sinking and he needs to pull himself out. He remembers, also, the last thing Nathan Bowen said to his daughter. Those are the last words she heard until she woke up to Ty under the car.

“Sure you can,” She says, taking his hand and pulling him to face the swan boat. She steps up into it, dainty and swift, then urges him to follow her. She held his hand and led him to The Diner, brought him a can of soda and wiped the blood from him— she was his age but she knew so much about patching up wounds. It was nice to have someone take care of him like that. She still does it because they’re both creatures of habit. She still takes his hand and pulls him from the sticky muck, the fears that hold him back, and guides him until he can move on his own again.

The space in the boat is small, obviously by design, and it sways from the weight and movement of the two of them, but it doesn’t flip and he doesn’t fall out. Even though it feels unsure under his feet, he’s still standing. He isn’t going to fall over and even if he did Tandy’s holding his hand. “You want to see where this ride goes?” She sits down in the boat and after wiping off the spot next to her he sits down too. Their thighs are pressed together. He leans out of the boat, picks up the sword and places it on the floor of the boat so they don’t forget it. He wishes they’d grabbed the second one though— maybe on the way back.

“You pull the lever,” He asks. It’s a bit of a stretch for her but not impossible and once the thing screeches the rust off the swan boat moves forward on the tracks. It’s still dark in the tunnel, and the underwater pink lights are more creepy than Ty thinks just dark water would be. There’s no debris or trash in it, not a ton of mosquitos either and that seems unlikely for a place that’s been unused for years. Kids must come out here more often than he realized.

He glances at Tandy. Her hands are clasped together in her lap. It would be kind of awkward for him to pry them off of each other just so he could hold one. He thinks about Billy again— a move that Billy claimed to have invented himself but now that Ty thinks of it that probably isn’t true.

Ty yawns, reaches his arms up high in the air and tries to make it convincing but he knows he’s too loud and the stretch is too over the top. Doesn’t matter, he’s in it now so he has to follow through— he brings his arm down and lays it across Tandy’s shoulders. She is trying so hard not to laugh out loud at him and manages a snort that she holds in the back of her throat.

This was stupid. She’s laughing at him. Maybe he can play it off as a joke or something—

Tandy leans into him, curls against him in the small space and lays her head on his shoulder resting so naturally there. The pink lights shimmer and move over her face through the filter of the water and with her ear pressed right over his heart he wonders if she can hear how it pounds in his chest. It slows after a few beats as they go deeper into the tunnel.

Neon lights twisted into the shapes of hearts line the walls and flash on and off in reds and pinks. Not all of them work— it’s clear in places where only half the heart lights up. There’s a couple of shapes that aren’t hearts but Ty isn’t sure what they’re meant to be until he sees one that’s nearly completed: little chubby cupids firing arrows in the shape of hearts.

“We should do a campus visit,” Tandy suggests, she’s so warm against him, “when we go to New York for the PI. Take lots of pictures for your mom.”

“She’d love that,” Ty pictures it, the two of them in New York on campus, blowing money on overpriced university merch and Tandy taking forever to pick the right filter before posting pictures. “Would you want to sit in on a lecture with me?”

She chuckles but it’s not mean; more like she had expected him to ask something like that. “Sure. I’ll even pack the legal pads.” They reach a point in the tunnel where all the lights are dead, even the ones under the water are flickering and failing to light their way. He hopes this ride goes to the end— otherwise they’re going to have to slog back through the water on foot.

The ride halts, sudden enough that they both pitch forward and have to catch themselves on the front of the boat. When the water lights give their last valiant effort to stay on Ty sees the water ripple towards them like there’s something moving in the darkness up ahead.

The tunnel shutters around them and at first Ty thinks it’s part of the ride but bricks shake loose from the ceiling and land in the water, kicking it up and at them. Tandy is up quickly and puts her body over Ty’s head as a shield. He winds an arm around her waist and pulls her down to switch their positions but the shaking stops. It simmers down into smaller tremors like ripples dying in the water. They hold their position in the boat until they’re sure the shaking is over.

Everything shuts off and Tandy makes the most exaggerated groan Ty’s ever heard. “What the hell was that,” She grumbles and then, “should we wait for a few minutes? See if it comes back on.”

Ty reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, turning the flashlight on and scanning the tunnel around them. It’s somehow creepier with only the little bit of light shining around them. He can hear water dripping onto concrete and a slick sound of serpentine movement against liquid. He shines the light down at the track and finds that it’s just stopped. Someone has broken the tracks leading back into the tunnel.

“Do you see a light at the end?” Tandy asks, standing up in the boat and making it sway a little. His cellphone light is draining the battery quickly so he shuts it off and they’re both perfectly still for a few moments while they adjust to the darkness again. Tandy shouts into the distance but it doesn’t echo, like screams are being swallowed up before they can reach the end. Tandy steps out of the boat and onto some side railing; she swings her leg over and settles on a platform that Ty hadn’t noticed was around them. That makes sense, there has to be some space for maintenance workers to treat the ride so they aren’t standing in the mucky water.

Tandy holds out her hand to him, fumbling a little in the dark to find him but once her hand clasps his hoodie he stands up and follows her onto the platform.

“We should walk backwards. It’s probably not that far to the end on foot,” She slides her hand down his forearm and takes two steps back the way they came but Ty doesn’t move. He pulls her back gently. “What is it?” She asks.

“There’s no light that way,” he sighs, “I think the entrance is closed off from the earthquake.”

“So we’re stuck in here?” Her voice pitches in fear and she squeezes his hand. The tunnel starts to feel smaller all around them.

“There’s light down at the other end,” He replies, giving her a gentle tug in the other direction, “the only way out is through.”

Tandy groans comically loud and it assures him that she’s feeling a little less claustrophobic. They take a few steps in that direction. Ty notes the sound of Tandy’s one wet foot squelching on the ground but there’s other noises around them that shouldn’t be there. The deeper they go into the tunnel the louder they get and he stops again.

“Something’s weird,” He strains his ears to listen, “you hear that? Water moving.” Tandy tips her head to the side and doesn’t make a sound for a few moments.

She nods and says, “Yeah so? There’s a lot of water here.”

“But the ride stopped,” Ty explains, “and we’re up here.” His voice gets lower as the sound gets closer, faster, like whatever is moving is picking up pace now that he’s talked about it. “What’s moving the water?”

“Let’s get out of here,” She insists, tugging at his hand and walking forward. He follows close behind her but his ears can’t shake the low sound of hissing, like a whisper at his back, not a warning but a promise of danger.

They take steady steps together towards the very little light they can see at the end. That appears to be flickering too. He tries to think up a course of action if they get to the end and there’s no way out. Rocks could have closed them off on both ends. Maybe they can dig their way out.

The light at the end flickers and they both pause. It keeps flickering in the distance but it isn’t like a light is going on and off— more that shadows keep moving over it and blocking out the light. The hissing is louder.

Ty tries to imagine anyone making it this far into the tunnel and actually making out. Sure, there would be lights flashing and probably some kind of harp music, but the smell and the wet darkness doesn’t really scream romance to him. Even without the pressing fear that the light they’re walking towards can’t be caught or doesn’t lead to an exit.

Tandy jumps backwards into him, slaps her hand over her own mouth to hold the scream in and then, just as quickly, whirls around to cover Ty’s mouth with her hands. He almost speaks around it to ask her what’s going on, but that is obviously counter-productive to what she wants to do, so instead he keeps his noises inside and peers into the dark.

There’s a shape growing and moving— it’s large, solid, and seems to coil around itself before uncoiling. It’s the thing moving in front of the light at the end, blocking their path. He can’t see it very well so he moves his hand, slowly, to take his phone back out and get the light.

Before he can reach it, the lights flicker and buzz back on, bringing the reds and pinks flowing into the tunnel around them and lighting up the monster guarding the exit.

It had been sleeping, or pretending to, but with the lights on those reptilian eyes stare right at them. The membrane of the brilles pull back and it’s massive head rises up, up, a seemingly endless body showing it’s stature.

A forked tongue slides out tasting the sweat of their fear in the air. Ty could swear it recognizes them, there’s something familiar in the way the giant snake’s lips curve into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “¿Crees que el se quitará la camiseta?” : Do you think he'll take off his shirt?  
> “¡Tu musculos son tan grandes y magros! Pero el musculo mas sexy es tu cerebro.” : Your muscles are so big and lean but your sexiest muscle is your brain!  
> “¡por favor quédate cerca! ¡Es muy aterrador! ¡Tengo escalofríos!” : Stay close! It's very scary! I have chills!  
> “Vas a perder los privilegios de linterna”: You are going to lose your flashlight privileges.  
> “Tienes a tu novio para mantenerla a salvo. Sin esta linterna, estoy indefensa.” : You have your boyfriend to keep you safe! Without this flashlight I am helpless!


	8. Eight

Chapter Eight

Bucky turns on the shower as hot as he can so it makes the steam before he pulls the cigarettes out of his hiding spot to light one. He flicks the lighter and that first deep inhale is awful, it always is because his mouth has lost the taste for it and the smell can make him sick if he lets it. It’s always a deep and quick inhale, he lets the smoke out of his lungs fast so he can get that desperate second hit. The second and remaining hits are the good ones, the taste is blocked by the smooth smell of tobacco mixing with the steam from the shower and the lavender air freshener that his Ma keeps in the bathroom. It’s all smooth and satisfying after that but he can still choke and cough on it if he’s too desperate for the nicotine. He brags that he’s not addicted, that he’s the kind of man that can have one every once in a while— and while he stands by that, he can’t help but feel it tick like a lie in his heart when he is so satisfied and desperate for how smooth and calming it feels.

Bex doesn’t respect a locked door if there’s steam rolling out from under it. Not that she kicks it down, she’s not strong like Steve and their Ma would have a fit if the whole door was broken down. Then a double fit when she found out Bucky was smoking. So Bex climbs out of her bedroom window, makes the quick and quiet climb over to the bathroom window and before Bucky can compute that she’s done this, that she’s standing in front of him, she’s already snatching the smoke out of his hand and holding it away from him like a hostage. He coughs harder than he would have if she hadn’t surprised him in the middle of an inhale. It stings him in a way it isn’t supposed to— he covers his mouth and huddles over trying to keep it from sounding too dramatic. He doesn’t miss Bex’s “ah-ha!” when she grabs the smoke. He needs a minute or two to catch his breath. 

The cough is too long and too loud, enough so that their Ma knocks on the door and asks, “Bucky, baby? Are you okay?”

“Fine Ma,” He calls out, holding a hand up to Bex to plead more than signal that she not say anything. She looks smug and self satisfied but she does heed the request as she taps out a little ash onto the roof. She probably just doesn’t want Bucky to throw open the door and tell their Ma that _she_ was the one sneaking a smoke on the roof.

“Are you sick?” Ma asks, jiggling the locked doorknob.

“Just a cough,” Bucky assures her through the door, “I’m having a steam to clear it up. I’m fine.”

“Let me know if you need the vapor rub,” She offers. They strain to listen and it’s a cold ninety seconds of Winnie being quiet before she actually walks away from the door.

When Bucky looks back at his sister she’s taking a long drag from the cigarette and he takes it back from her, pinching between two fingers and resuming his drag. Half the cig is gone now, he’ll have to pull out another just to feel like he got his fill. All the ash on the shingles signals what a waste Bex has made of the habit. The one she thinks is so nasty she climbed the roof to catch him at it, yet she’s taking a drag and not so much as clearing her throat.

Bucky wonders where she hides hers then— probably just in the back of her underwear drawer. Winnie doesn’t normally check there since they’re old enough to fold and put away their own laundry.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Bucky asks her, sure to let his annoyance show and she sticks her tongue out at him before she settles into a sitting position outside of the window. Her body is turned at an angle so she can keep looking at him while they talk.

“If I were trying to kill you it’d go a lot easier than this. I would make sure I didn’t have to climb anything.”

“Poison or some such?” Bucky guesses.

She shrugs. “Okay, you caught me, I haven’t thought about it much. Or at all.”

“Thinking about my private bathroom time though. Which is a total invasion of my privacy, by the way.”

“We’re twins. We don’t have privacy,” Bex holds her fingers out and Bucky, instead of passing her the almost done cigarette, pulls out the pack and pulls a full one out for her. She puts it between her lips and he forgets that he has to light it for her until she clears her throat.

“You bored or what?” Bucky asks, clicking the lighter on and waiting for the cherry to burn orange before he closes the flame off.

“I just wanted to prove a point,” She says and she so obviously wants him to ask— she’s always leading like that and as much as she enjoys doing it he enjoys waiting a long time to comply, it’s a strange teasing that has existed between them for a long time.

“What’s that, then?” Bucky finally asks and notes how her mouth ticks up on the left in a smile, something Steve says Bucky also does, before she replies.

“That you aren’t fooling anyone,” She makes smoke rings and if that isn’t confirmation that she sneaks a smoke more than he does nothing is. “Well, just Ma,” She allows. He tosses the finished butt into the toilet and pulls a second smoke out. He has ten left now. He’ll have to get more soon. He pulls the fire into the end of the cigarette letting her talk while he gets a full fix. “I bet even Steve knows. Where do you hide your smokes at his place?”

“First of all,” Bucky says, pausing to exhale, “I’m not stupid enough to think I can sneak a smoke from Steve.”

They both wait, the smoke passing between them, the wind blowing Bex’s into Bucky’s and creating one strong cloud slowly moving to the left and disappearing into the night, until she asks, “And secondly?”

He feels his mouth tick up on the opposite side from hers into that half-smile and he’d hate how right Steve is if it didn’t also make his stomach flutter, the way Steve knows them, how they move. “And secondly it’s not ‘Steve’s place’ it’s ‘Our Place’. I live there too.”

Bex grants him a “hm” in response, a small agreement to what is a small argument if one at all. Sometimes it must be hard for her to think of Bucky living somewhere else— made harder still by how often he is home with them.

“What about Sarah’s?” Bex asks, and doesn’t wait for inclination to continue, they’re over with that— the cigarettes are burning short, Bucky only has so many left, there’s only so long they can sit on the roof and chat without something warm to burn their lungs against the cold.

“He called the realtor this week,” Bucky replies. A little of the ash drops on his hand and he shakes it off. It makes his skin feel dead and dry where it stains. He’ll have to wash his hands twice before he goes back to Steve.

“You sure about that? I know he’s been saying he would for a while.”

“I heard him on the phone,” Bucky confirms, “Wednesday or round about then. It’s good he did it— her birthday is coming up.” They both know if Steve had put it off any longer it would have felt impossible to sell the house then.

Bex finishes her smoke and looks around for a moment, unable to find a place to flick the butt. Bucky opens his palm and she sets it inside. He throws it into the toilet with the first one and breathes in another breath.

She keeps holding her hand out though, like she wants another smoke but Bucky shakes his head. He’s almost out. He wonders how long she’s known about the stash. Maybe it’s not that she has her own tucked into the underwear drawer but that she sneaks from his instead.

One thing about being at home rather than at the cottage with Steve is nothing here is really _his_. Nothing is just Bucky’s— everything is Bex’s too. They share everything and he should be used to it but tonight it burns him up like the cherry of the cigarette too close to his fingers when a drag is too long.

“One’s enough,” He says, maybe a little pissier than is warranted but she closes her palm and pulls her hand back anyway, “I’m low is all.” He says. A lie. He wonders if she knows his lies— she seems to, climbing out her window to catch him wasting hot water just to join in the forbidden act herself— but he doesn’t know all of hers. She has a life outside of him, she must, but she never shares any of it.

That feels unfair. He has his life with Steve, he has his secrets from him, and Bucky has shared those things with her. It feels like she’s allowed secrets that he isn’t and it makes it so hard to keep leaning out the window, catching cold from the wind, and mourning the warm steam as it leaks out of all the cracks. Soon it will be gone, cold water the only thing left, and all he’ll have is the nicotine and the smell of smoke, nothing to cover his lies.

There’s maybe only a good three to four puffs left on it so he hands it over to her. It’s starting to make him feel sick anyway, his mouth tasting it stale and unsatisfied inside of him. He could swear the nicotine stains between his teeth— he’ll have to floss as well as brush before he goes home. Maybe even do a mouthwash to be sure.

There’s a knock and at first Bucky thinks it’s on the bathroom door again, but Bex jumps and turns to look back into her bedroom. She lays back, leans her body over and calls in through her open window, stretched awkwardly but determined not to climb back inside just yet.

Winnie answers, “Rebecca I need some things from the store. Can you take the car? I’m too tired to drive out.”

Bex’s exhale of smoke is a groan of dissent. “Can you send Buck?” She asks and he rolls his eyes before he pulls back inside the bathroom and turns the shower off.

“He’s sick,” Winnie replies, and it’s like he’s played a trick on his poor mother, one that makes his sister suffer and Bex sticks her tongue out at him as a sign of her disgust. It’s not enough for her to combat the lie though, whatever disapproval she feels towards him.

“Gimme a minute or so,” Becca promises, “Make a list for me.”

“I just need a few things,” Winnie says, specifically not going down the hall for pen and paper to make a list and instead just rattling things off at her daughter, “chicken stock, all purpose flour, some double A batteries.” Bex rolls her eyes and lays all the way down on the roof, not caring if it dirties the back of her dress, while she takes in the last of her cigarette and blows smoke into the sky.

Bucky looks up. Too many clouds and he imagines the smoke climbing into the air to become a part of the overcast. “Ma, make a list or I’m sending Bucky,” She threatens— empty. There’s a bug crawling over her ankle and Bucky swipes it away for her. 

“Get him some cough syrup too,” Winnie requests, “he’s got a cough, poor thing. You know if he’s got it Steve will have it too, so get some to send him back with.”

“A list, Ma! Make a list for me,” Bex lifts up and sneers at him, she pulls several faces that are meant to insult him, and she mouths a few things too that he doesn’t catch because it’s too dark and her face is too far from the light of the bathroom through the window.

“You’re a coward, Bucky Barnes,” Bex says, before she awkwardly crawls back into her own bedroom. He waits to hear her feet land on the floor before he snaps back at her.

“Bring me another pack, while you’re out, Bex,” He says, like a command. A sick little princeling asking a servant to be a dear and answer his every whim.

Her answer is to stick her arm out, as far out of the window as it’ll go, to flip him the bird. He laughs, flushes the remnants of their crime down the drain and then makes work of brushing his teeth.

She wears her nice heels out to the store— he doesn’t see her go but he remembers the sound they make on her way down the stairs, that distinct clicking and he wonders why she’d dress so nice to pick up cigarettes and cough syrup.

He’ll ask her when she gets back.

*

He swears he can hear it— the sound of Bex’s heels on the steps, clicking her out of the house and a question unanswered— but he knows it’s in his head and his heart. Instead of a thumping beat it’s just that click, click, click. There’s not much that can be heard over the engine of the boat or the rush of wind in his ears. Everytime the other passengers speak it’s with loud shouting— mostly the boat pilot to the captain.

Steve keeps looking at him— not one long steady look like he’s boring into Bucky with his eyes but a constant glance between Bucky and the horizon as if making sure both of them are still there.

Bucky doesn’t have all his memories, but the fake ones are falling away like an iceberg melting, little pieces breaking off into the water and floating away. Maybe all of that needs to leave before everything that’s real comes back— but the memory of him and Bex on the roof, sharing a smoke, the last thing he said to her, all of those things are crystal clear. It feels more real to him than what is happening now. Like the memory is fundamental to who he is. It’s fundamental to who Bex is— was because the beast is her but it’s not her and although he can’t explain why it is a truth he _knows_ so deep in his heart that it hurts.

She’s dead. And they tormented and wrestled words and memories out of her before she died and slapped those on top of a beast. She suffers as the beast, she suffers as the tip of the iceberg breaking off and floating away, and he suffers right along with her.

Steve holds his hand and the moment that Bucky can feel Steve’s warm pulse, the unique beat of his heart in his veins, he doesn’t feel better but he feels safer in his tragedy. Sometimes a held hand is the only thing between obliteration and breathing. 

As he watches the beast plunge towards the cliffs, those bright lights flashing behind Bucky’s eyes and fighting the pulse of Steve’s heart in his veins. There is a sea of memories he doesn’t own, things thrust upon him, but he can’t close his eyes. It feels too much like pretending— ignoring everything that happens even though he can’t hold onto all of it.

It happened. That’s true. That matters. That is enough and the conviction of it gives him strength and anger that he squeezes into Steve’s hand.

“Do you?” Steve asks, and he has to lean in, talk louder to be heard over the wind, but something about his voice tells Bucky he could find it in any storm, hear it inside of him even if the wind tries to steal it away. It’s half a question anyway but Bucky knows the full answer.

“Some things,” He answers back, turning his head and feeling heat breathed onto his lips— it reminds him how cold it is out here, mid-March in McDunn and both of them with their clothes soaked in salt water. Bucky continues, “I remember little flashes, I remember the last day I saw her.” There’s an unspoken question, something that exists unasked between the hitch of Steve’s breaths, he wants to know if Bucky remembers him and Bucky doesn’t want to answer. He knows he’s broken Steve’s heart already, he doesn’t wish to do it again.

Bucky doesn’t remember Steve in his mind but he does within his body. Is that enough? Bucky’s flesh and bones curve into Steve’s warmth, he knows him like he knew his childhood home. His lips can remember kissing, his hands and fingers know where to grip his Captain just right and although he can’t recall the sound he can feel it vibrate through him, a moan of his true name. He wants Steve to say it, over and over, like a reclamation of himself. Something that will bring him closer to who he is and further from who they have made him.

The engine dies down after Sam turns it off. Bucky turns to ask him why they’ve stopped but before the words get out he hears the unmistakable sound of rocks crumbling and splashing into the sea. Looking back at Bex he can see her massive body, almost tall enough to reach the carnival on top, clawing and climbing up. If only it were a little lower, a little easier for her, she could open her chaos onto it, tear the metal from its roots and toss it into the ocean.

Bucky pictures it, sinking, being nothing more than a bad memory, a ghost he will always be haunted by but unable to hurt him further. It deserves death, extinction, some crimes must be paid for in fire and teeth— it occurs to him then that he doesn’t know the goals of the others in the boat with him.

Bucky knows what Bex wants. He knows what he wants too, and what Molly and Gert deserve. Even though the familial relation and the memories aren’t “real”, he still wants to protect them. He still loves them. He will still tear everything down brick by brick to keep them safe. He looks at Steve again and there’s a familiarity in his face— determination and, without speaking, Bucky knows that their goals align. If Bucky asks Steve for blood he’ll open every vein to give it to him.

Bex’s climb is loud and destructive, but ultimately unsuccessful. She crashes into the water like all the rocks she tore down in her wake. She does attempt another climb— she turns her body in the water, waves pulsing out to greet them and rock their little boat without over turning it, and then she dives down. There are caves and spaces she can move through. If she can’t attack from the head she will climb in through the open wounds of the cliffs, the facility, and she will destroy from within like a toxin in the bloodstream.

Rightfully, the two reporters are much more focused on and concerned for their intern. She’s not riding Bex and Bucky is glad that Bex is in a state of humanity that she doesn’t try to eat the girl. But there are all kinds of demons in the night, more ghosts and ghouls to battle, and one has swept in from the air and snatched her up.

She won’t die. Bucky knows it will be just as bad though, if they don’t shut everything down. He remembers Fenoff and Lykos, Peirce and the Yorkes, he even remembers, from so long ago, the kind lying voices of the Hernandez couple. He can’t picture Winnie giving him and Bex up the way those four have. That’s a sin that is inconceivable— to love a child and sacrifice their identity for science. For compliance. It doesn’t matter what their reasons were, it doesn’t even matter that they died for their own cause— this is unforgivable.

When the water has settled, Sam turns the engine back on and drives forward. Bucky stands then, regretfully dropping Steve’s hand and pointing to the East. Sam turns the boat and follows without question but Bucky answers anyway. Everyone in this boat is owed answers— no one here should blindly follow him.

“There’s a lower entrance,” Bucky explains. “It’s a docking station. They stopped using it because of,” he pauses and needs Steve to squeeze his hand before he finishes, “Bex. She became aware and it was too dangerous to dock there.”

“Is she gonna make it dangerous for us?” Sam asks. Bucky shakes his head. Sam looks like he doesn’t believe him— then he looks at his partner and sighs. There’s only one way to find out if Bucky is right so Sam turns the boat in the proper direction and rolls in slowly keeping eyes out for the docking station.

It’s torn up, and most of it is surely drift wood now lost out to sea, but the broken pieces that remain have started to grow barnacles and have seaweed slick and green covering it. It’s a little hard for Sam to find a space t with the remains, but he finds a general area to pull up and dock. Bucky is out first, slipping a little and falling back into Steve. Steve’s strong arms lift and push him back onto the solid ground before he himself walks up and follows. The other two men remain in the boat, Clint holding a rope and looking around for a place to tie it to while Sam searches the panel of the boat— probably for an anchor to drop.

There are two other boats in the graveyard of the dock. Bucky can recognize the print of Bex’s claw in the wreckage of the one smashed to pieces. The other is mostly in one piece but the engine is exposed and rusted— it’s as dead as anything down here.

Steve holds his arm out to Clint for the rope and the man tosses it to him. Steve walks it back to a particularly sharp and tall rock and makes a complex knot around it. Once he’s done, Clint gives a few good tugs, hard as he can, until he’s satisfied that the tide itself won’t be the thing that pulls their escape out.

Steve offers his hand to Clint, and once he’s also on solid stone Clint assists Sam out. They stand together and Bucky breaks off from the three of them, walking back further into the dark of the cave— he can smell where the texture changes, where the shift from hard stone turns to concrete and further in tile and the cold fluorescents of the lab. He closes his eyes and as the wind whistles in the cave, echoes and chills him in a space behind his eyes he can’t access, it sounds like the chilling scream of a banshee. Soft and haunting, but he knows that the further in they walk the louder the screams will get. Screams are made and manipulated in this place and he’s scared to hear it all over again.

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and pulls him back. Bucky turns and looks into Steve’s blue eyes and there’s something about the exact shade of them that settles the shaking of Bucky’s nerves. “We need to find The Boom Room,” Bucky is pretty sure Dale named it— Dale was very bad at naming things but kept on naming them anyway. “Peirce will be there— he can fix all this.” That’s not strictly true, it’s all damage control and revenge at this stage. That’s all Bucky can get, all he can give, and without putting words to any of this Steve nods and agrees.

Sam calls up to them, “Where can we find Kate? We need to get to her.”

Bucky nods— understanding that they have a priority different from his and points into the dark. “You’ll follow us up until it becomes a tunnel,” as he talks Clint moves to stand where he can see Bucky speaking. “Then we’ll go right and you’ll go left. After that there are maps and arrows. You want,” Bucky closes his eyes— there’s a pain he feels in the space behind his eyes, a scream ringing there but nowhere else— he fights it and says, “you want to go to the Lykos Lab. It’s listed like that on all the signs. It’s on an upper floor so you’ll have to climb.”

“We can climb,” Clint promises, nodding and clapping Sam on the shoulder, “we need to put a grappling hook on the supply request this fiscal year. Don’t forget.”

Sam smiles, even builds up to a small laugh, but the anxiety in him must be stronger than the levity his partner attempts.

“There should be stairs,” Bucky promises. “It shouldn’t be as hard as all that.”

“Too bad,” Sam sighs, face still turned to his cameraman, “I keep looking forward to seeing you do some climbing.” 

Clint laughs, says something soft to Sam that Bucky doesn’t catch before he goes back to the boat. He picks up the camera equipment and starts to strap it to his body. Bucky figures he must be picking spaces where it won’t be damaged if it does come to a more complex ascent than stairs.

“Lead,” Steve asks it like a question, his hand so close but not touching Bucky’s, just waiting in the dark to be held. Bucky takes him by the wrist and pulls him inside. He can hear Steve behind him but can’t see and he thinks to himself that he mustn’t look back, no matter what he hears, no matter if Steve’s hand drops from his.

There can be no looking backwards— the only way out is through.

*

Molly is shocked, of course, by what she’s seeing, but what rattles her more is how familiar it looks. Not so much the animal fight that ensues but the raptor herself. That’s a strange thing to know what the gender of the animal is but she does _know_ and inside somewhere there’s a name she can’t pull out if she thinks too hard. It’s like following the blur in the corner of her eye, she can’t look directly at it or she’ll lose it all together.

“Old Lace,” Gert says and as soon as the words are out Molly agrees— that’s her name. She came from their screams and she recognizes the danger to them. The two animals circle each other and as Chase climbs up the opposite end of the roller coaster, seeking the safety of higher ground, Gert starts to climb downward.

Molly follows her, they’re safer on the ground than up here. They need to stay out of the radius of the fight, and they need to take cover— she doesn’t know why. The sky isn’t safe— gargoyles waiting to snatch them and carry her to that dark place of metal and chains. She won’t go back.

It’s not an easy climb down because they have to be more careful this way. The roller coaster creeks underneath them and it feels rickety under their weight. It’s harder to find footing, at one point Gert’s doc martens step too hard on a wooden panel and it snaps under her. She catches herself, pulls her leg out from the hole it made and says, quickly to ease her sister, “I’m fine. Step lightly.”

Molly swallows. Her throat is dry and her mouth tastes like salt— she can’t remember the last time she drank water. What if she faints up here? Just to go plummeting down— it wouldn’t kill her but she’d break bones and she needs all of them to run away now. Gert hits solid land and even though she should run for cover she stays, holding her arms up and open to her sister, she’s not going to safety without her. Molly finds comfort there: if she were to fall Gert would catch her. She jumps the last few inches down, her weight falling a little into Gert’s open arms and for a moment she feels the sturdy embrace of them. She is held and warm and safe and memory spins out like yarn unraveling inside of her.

She was small. Very small. Small enough to be lifted and carried but Gert wasn’t quite big enough to hold her for long and walk at the same time. There’s a rocking chair and a light on which feels warm. She remembers the jostling of her body while Gert sat in the chair, she tried to pass Molly from one arm to the other and keep the blanket from falling on the floor. It did fall a little bit, just the small left corner of it and Gert snatched it up like maybe it could be too dirtied from just that bit touching the ground. She brushed it off but there weren’t any stains and Molly thinks, distantly, that they should’ve said a prayer over it to bless it again. Instead Gert tucked it tightly around her and that in itself felt like blessing enough— even Gert’s words of “I got you Molls” are their own kind of prayer.

Once Molly’s shoes touch hard ground Gert is immediately pushing her down further, to crawl under the roller coaster and hide between the stacks like mice do in walls. It’s not an easy descent, Gert has a bloody knee and the rocks on the ground aren’t gentle to crawl on, but they’re unhurt and behind panels of wood that aren’t big enough for a lion to claw in and get them. Chase is up about as high as the first crest. There’s a roller coaster buggy resting on the side there and it’s some fancy footwork that gets him standing behind it rather than in front. He doesn’t get inside of it but he rests his hands on the back and gives it small pushes forward and back— he’s checking the weight of it. If one of the beasts climbs up the roller coaster after him he’ll have something to knock them back with.

The lamp had a knob on it that could be turned to make it brighter or darker and after Gert reached up to dim it down all Molly wanted to do was reach for it, to play with the light because she was small enough to see a fascination in the way such a simple thing can change. Cause and effect were new concepts to her and she would turn the bulb on and off, up and down, until it broke if someone let her. Maybe Gert might even have let her a few times later. Gert pulled Molly’s head to rest on her chest and it was so easy to hear the beat of her heart like this. Molly closes her eyes and notes the differences in other heart beats she’s heard before. She understands heart beats— that her mother’s sounds different from her father’s and Gert’s is like an entirely new rhythm in her ears. New concepts, cause and effect, Molly pressed her ear in harder to get closer to the sound, to try and memorize the way it pumped against her small ears.

There’s a point when Old Lace catches sight of Chase at the top of the coaster and she turns, too smart for such a move, and starts to herd the lion onto the tracks. The lion stands on the tracks, and swipes at Old Lace to keep her distance; once she’s claimed the higher ground, Old Lace jumps off the track, and landson the lattice work of the roller coaster, held there by her feet like a bird on a wire. Chase doesn’t miss his shot: his leg rises and he gives one good, hard kick to the buggy and it goes spinning down. Gert covers her eyes, not able to take the sight of the impact but lucky for both of them Molly keeps her eyes open. The lion jumps— it’s clearly a move that causes the cat pain but she jumps over the buggy nonetheless and without a lion to crash into it goes right through the ricket slats of the roller coaster. It flies straight at Molly and Gert— the two only narrowly escaping being smashed by Molly grabbing her sister and yanking them far enough to the left to go unharmed.

Gert stands up, pulls Molly with her and then pulls them both to sit behind the discarded buggy. “Stay in there, it’s safer,” Gert warns her. The buggy is too small for both of them to fit in it at this angle. Molly looks around in distress before she asks Gert directly, “What about you?”

Gert doesn’t have an answer— she wasn’t thinking about herself. Possibly she was focused on the lion now running up to Chase to catch him uninterrupted and the boy stands up there like bait on a hook.

Molly knew then, somehow, that she'd never hear her parent’s heart beat again. She wondered if Gert could mimic them at all or if it would always sound clunky and remedial like the way Gert stumbled over Spanish.

Gert had “Buenas Noches, Luna” tucked somewhere— Molly was so focused on her heartbeat that she didn’t catch where it came from. Gert must have had things tucked away in all kinds of places. She read it in English and Molly hated it like that— it felt too familiar and distant to ease her into sleep like it normally did but when she reached to try and turn the pages, Gert simply took her hand, gave it a loving little squeeze, and then continued on in the English.

She wanted it in the Spanish. She wanted her father’s arms, her mother’s scent, both of them taking turns with each page. She feared that she would never hear it that way again. She should keep it in her heart, a memory to cling to when she started to miss them, if Gert was ever gone and couldn’t hold her close. But even as it beat the steady pump of Gert’s heart started to overtake the sound Molly remembered. She felt warm, the sacred blanket wrapped around her and Gert holding her so tight nothing could ever feel safer than this.

Gert cried, little tears falling on the page and Molly reached to touch each space that had a new drop. Gert paused, shifting to wipe her eyes and sniffle trying to read through the crying. When Gert goes to turn the page again Molly slapped her hand down over the cow jumping over the moon and said “Vaquita” to help Gert. Gert sobbed out like something was caught in her throat before she nodded and repeated the word.

Gert kept crying, stopping sometimes to put her nose in Molly’s hair and take a deep breath in, but she turned each page slowly and said the words as best she could— easier with Molly’s instruction.

They reached the end and Gert turned it over and started from the beginning. Each time she finished she turned to read it again until Molly fell asleep. She doesn’t remember anything after that. Just the steady beating of her sister’s heart.

The world is scary and cold, a dark place made of teeth and loud noises, but in the warm glow of the lamp, tucked tightly against Gert, everything felt safer.

There are headlights and the familiar sound of the custom horn Dale bought for the van— it plays “Greensleeves” or the first few notes, anyhow. It’s not a very threatening melody to choose for a van but Dale honks the horn anyway as he drives the van into the lion. Molly winces having poked her head out to see the source of the horn. The lion has been hit by so many things tonight— she feels like she’s watching one of those old cartoons where you feel bad for the cat because he just wanted to eat that mouse so badly. The van doesn’t go in for a double hit— Dale stands up in the driver’s seat and leans out the window to yell, “She’s still breathing,” to his wife.

Staci scrambles out of the van and up to the lion. Old Lace still perched on the roller coaster caws at Staci who just shushes the creature while she looks over the lion.

Staci stays focused on the lion while Dale steps out of the van and starts pulling levers at the roller coaster entrance. He finds the one he needs, giving out a triumphant “whoot” when he pulls the final lever and a rectangular hole opens up on a panel under the deck. So many hidden doors. Molly doesn’t want to go anywhere with these people. They’re bad people.

The dinosaur snaps at the lion and the sound hurts Molly, the pain pulsing in the vein in her temple because that sound means something bad. She didn’t do something right. She was supposed to listen more or better.

“What’s going on?” Chase shouts from up top, Molly ducks down worried that Chase will be stupid enough to reveal their location.

Chase starts to climb down, taking his steps back easy as he can when a shadow swoops out of the sky and picks him up. Gert covers her own mouth to avoid a scream. Molly turns away and tries not to imagine a gargoyle picking Chase apart back in its evil lair.

She knows the man who took him but the name is hard to reach— everything is so far away and too loud. Chase was just an innocent kid. They’re all innocent kids and Staci and Dale are going to take Molly away. She doesn’t want to go with them. She wants to go home. She’s not sure where that is, the physical space, but she’ll die if she doesn’t go there. There’s nowhere safe here. She wants to go _home_.

“I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you, Molls,” Gert promises. Molly is too young to call that impossible, to negate or critique it, so instead she just believes it as all children do when they are warm, safe, and loved. If nothing else, Gert means it. That makes it easy to close her eyes and sleep deeply even though her mother’s fingers aren’t in her hair, and her father isn’t humming softly. Even though she hasn’t said prayers.

*

Ty thinks he should hold his breath— time feels like it isn’t moving while he’s holding his breath but once his ears pick up the note of Tandy panting, her body trembling in the dark next to him, he realizes time can’t possibly be stopped.

It’s the snake— it’s not moving, or maybe it has hypnotized him into thinking he’s still and steady. Ty remembers being under the car, the fear to keep quiet, hold perfectly still and you won’t make a noise and even then Tandy was next to him, pulling air in and out of her body loudly. Too hot, it had been too hot that day and if he breathes too deep it’ll sink into his lungs and make him sick. He’ll cough harder than that one time Billy let him try a clove.

It’s cold here. He’s not under a car, he's in a tunnel with water and bricks and he’s bigger now. The snake cocks his head, as if it can note the change in Ty when he is frozen in fear and the second he shifts it off of himself. The snake rises up, making itself bigger and that’s scary but it’s not enough to make Ty freeze again. Sometimes the threshold for fear is hit and can’t be breached any higher.

“Tandy,” Ty says, soft but firm and he notes how his own voice doesn’t shake for once, “we need to move towards it.”

“Are you serious?” Tandy hisses— jumping from terror to anger as if the two emotional divots live next to each other inside of her. Ty glances at the open light behind the snake and knows they have a better chance getting through there then back into the dark.

“It can’t take both of us,” Ty assures her, he takes a step back, settling himself behind her and touching her shoulder to push her closer to the wall. “You’re faster. Just run around it when it goes for me.” Ty slowly lifts the messenger bag off of his shoulders and sets it next to her. The bag will weigh him down.

He swears the serpent smiles. It must be a trick of the shadows, or something primal in him trained to note wickedness in a grin when a monster wants to eat him whole. Either way the snake feels familiar and it looks at the two of them with more delight than just an animal about to get a double meal. There’s something— well, Ty can’t say “human” exactly, there’s too much eagerness in an impending kill to call the smile human, but it’s no garden snake that’s for damn sure.

“How are you gonna get out?” She’s not trembling now. She must know the plan. She’s faster, she’ll get out and that matters. Just like in a mugging, just like she told him, they need to split the danger between them and there’s nothing in this world that would make Ty trade Tandy’s safety for his. She’s better at running away from him anyway. Always has been.

He shoves her and then jumps himself over the railing into the water. She screams his name but it gets muffled when his head goes underwater. Even with the snake diving away from Tandy, its head going into the water after Ty quick as a whip, Ty still has the thought that this water is disgusting and if he gets it in his mouth he will hurl.

He breaks the surface, finds footing but it’s deeper here than he expected; the water comes up to his chest. Billy’s hoodie is soaked. Ty looks around, frantic, but the snake is too big to hide even with the cover of darkness and water five feet deep to help it. He does see the head but he sees the body, still diving, like the way a rope unravels as the stone sinks into the depths. There’s so much snake and he wishes he’d thought this plan through better.

“Get out of there!” Tandy shouts at him. She did run, like he asked, all the way to the nest of the snake. The hole through to safety is right behind her and she could take two steps through the hole and get away. It’s too small for the python to follow her— why is she yelling at him instead of running?

“ _You_ get out of here,” He snaps back at her. He understands that fear and anger pillar more in this moment than he has before— he jumped into gross tunnel water for her and if she dies instead of runs— 

He jumps. Something brushes his leg and he falls backwards into the water. He keeps his head above it and swims backwards, flapping his arms and kicking his feet at the body of the snake that brushed him. The body is too long, Ty can’t follow it to the head which apparently has no qualms about being submerged.

Tandy leans over the railing and reaches her hand out. She keeps getting further from the exit but he reaches back for her anyway. “Come on, come on,” She says, like that could make him go any faster. He throws himself towards her, makes a couple of breast strokes, his fingers touch hers and then they slip away.

It’s got him by the leg. These are his nicest jeans. His mother is going to cry over his body and he knows exactly the sound her wailing will make when she has to bury her son. He goes under the water, spinning as he’s dragged deeper down. Water fills his nostrils but not his lungs as he holds his breath. He’s not going to drown. The snake can eat him whole or piece by piece but Ty refuses to die by drowning.

He can barely see Tandy through the water, her small figure standing, turning, and doing what Tandy Bowen does best. He closes his eyes. That’s okay that it’s the last thing he’ll see. Her going to safety. He’d laugh if it were at all funny but of course it would end this way for him. He’d go out just like Billy, all noble and stupid at the same time. Ty keeps his eyes shut tight because he doesn’t want to remember her running away.

He doesn’t die.

He feels a splash, hears a muffled scream through the waves, and there’s an impact on the snake. Ty isn’t sure where, but it’s hard and close enough that the mouth opens and his leg is free. He scrambles up to the surface, takes in deep gulps of musty tunnel air, and when his eyes clear he sees Tandy standing in front of him, wielding a sword like they’re playing Zorro in the backyard again.

She’s holding it aloft, ready to bring it down and slice again, her eyes shifting about the tunnel looking for the head of the snake. “You _asshole_ ,” She shouts at him, “you self sacrificial asshole, I can’t believe you did that.”

“I told you to run,” He yells back at her— as grateful as he is to not be dead yet it’s still a possibility and now Tandy might go down too because she’s just as stubborn as he is. “Why didn’t you run?”

“Can’t go anywhere without you,” She’s smiling, her reckless need for kicks trumping out over anger and fear, she spares a glance back at him, “who’s gonna look out for you?”

The snake’s head comes up out of the water, it’s mouth opens so wide Ty thinks the jaw must be unhinged and just as he shouts, “Look out,” the snake strikes.

Tandy moves before she looks, her body somehow comfortable in the darkness, somehow skilled with a blade bigger than any one she’s wielded before, and she strikes right back just as sharp. The sword hits the roof of the snake’s mouth and it pauses, still as it was when they woke it but eyes darting between the two of them, nostrils flaring, and that human kind of venomous familiarity that Ty can place but can’t bear to think of.

There’s intelligence. A normal snake wouldn’t stop it’s strike, it would have closed his jaws down and taken the sword into its flesh not having the human context for what a blade is. But it stops and holds its jaws open. They are at an impasse.

“That’s right,” Tandy mocks it, “your mouth comes down and my sword goes straight into your brain.”

He can’t believe she went with quoting Dragonheart word for word— that’s so lame. “What now?” Ty asks her, glancing from the exit behind him to where she stands like King Arthur himself, sword steady, and hand still, ready to strike if the serpent tests her. It’s not that the danger has left, he still very much feels the pressing danger especially in the moving of the snake’s body, drawing itself into the water with the rest of him, but she does look amazing. Even with her hair slicked back from gross tunnel water, there’s a swift justice emulating from her and she might as well be glowing as far as Ty is concerned.

“You get out,” She tells him and takes one step back. As she does the serpent pushes his head forward as if she has him hooked and he must move with her. There’s something in the way his eyes flash that tells Ty the snake would rather eat her than anything else— a hunger that rests in the small slits of black even as the membrane expands and contracts over the eyes.

“You think I’m going to leave you?” He scoffs, moving back through the water until he finds the edge of the platform. He reaches his hands back and feels along the bricks there, searching for ones that are steady to put pressure on if he were to pull himself up.

Tandy takes another step back, sword never faltering and the snake’s open mouth following as if trying to back her into the corner, like she would dive inside of him if she had nowhere else to go. She steps until she almost bumps into Ty but he settles his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, and she knows they’ve hit the end of the line.

“You up first. I’ll follow,” She promises and he can’t see her lip but he knows that this can’t be a truth.

“You first,” He fires back, like that makes any sense. The snake’s eyes flash between them and Ty clocks the sound of the end of that long body falling into the water. He leans over, grabs the strap of Tandy’s messenger bag, and in a swift throw hurls it behind them and through the small exit hole. It rustles a small stone or two on its way.

The snake starts to rise, higher into the air showing off just how big it can be. The taller he becomes the further he pulls from Tandy’s sword and Ty feels smaller by every foot the snake climbs into the air.

He’ll hit the roof soon, Ty isn’t sure when but the tunnel isn’t that big around and once he has no more “up” to go he’ll strike down and Ty doubts that Dragonheart move is going to work twice. “Now,” Ty hisses, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her back as he makes the slippery climb up the bricks. The second they are out of the water the snake’s head comes down where they were standing and Ty tries not to think about how small the space is— how both of them could have been gone in one gulp.

They’re both scrambling but moving together, and they slip, their skin gets scraped by the loose brick and stone, but they don’t stop. They’re fast enough to get through the hole and out of the tunnel.

There’s a loud noise, not strong enough to shake the foundations of their escape route, but it’s very funny when the snake’s snout hits the entrance and scrunches up too big for the space. It hisses in pain and what Ty interprets must be embarrassment.

They’re sprawled out on a tile floor, there’s debris around them and harsh fluorescent lights. The snake rests his eye at the hole, blinking and watching them like waiting for a mouse to crawl out of hiding.

Tandy laughs. She drops the sword and curls up into herself, holding her knees to her chest and laughing so hard it must hurt her sides. Ty reaches for her but before he can make contact she slaps his hand away and turns to glare at him.

“Telling me to run,” She snarls at him, “you think I could really run away from you? For good?”

“I didn’t want you to die,” He says, defensive because it’s not like he didn’t do anything she also did, to an extent.

“Could you run away from me?” She sits up on her knees and she’s glaring, or she’s trying to, but there are unmistakable tears forming at the corner of her eyes.

He shakes his head. “Never,” He says it softly, a whisper that exists between the beats of his heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Her voice is shaking and she _is_ crying now. He finds it a little fascinating, he hasn’t seen her cry since they were kids. He reaches up and wipes a tear off of her cheek just to make sure it’s real. “We don’t trade our lives for each other, okay?”

“Okay,” He says. The corners of his mouth are pulling up at the sides on their own— he can’t help but smile. There’s a kind of peace being born inside of him, a vision of him away at school and Tandy doing whatever makes her happy wherever she wants to be. They don’t have to be together— he feels settled in knowing that wherever either of them goes they’re always going to mean _this_ to each other. Whatever kind of love it is between them, it’s permanent and no distance could rip them apart anymore than a giant snake.

He puts his palm on her cheek and pulls her closer to him, so close that their soft breaths mingle together and he whispers, “I’m gonna kiss you.”

She closes her eyes, leans forward, and sighs out in anticipation, “Finally.”

He’s glad he waited for the perfect moment.

*

Kate applied to five schools but it was expected that she’d be going to Derek’s alma mater or she’d be going nowhere. She got in, there was an entire party full of champagne and she got so tipsy she had to go to bed early.

She laid all the brochures for the schools out, knowing that if she got into Derek’s first pick for her she got into all of them. He hadn’t been subtle about it— he also hadn’t had any input on what she should major in. It almost seemed like it didn’t matter to him, like getting into the school and the life of college campus were the things that mattered.

Someone at the party had asked her, “What are you majoring in, Katie?” and before she could answer, her brain somewhat short circuiting when she realized she hadn’t thought that far yet, Derek had interrupted with, “That doesn’t matter. We’ve got money. College is more about the experience.”

That hurt her in a way she hadn’t expected. She had worked so hard, put so much time and effort into getting accepted only to find out that Derek just wanted her to _go_ to school, like physically be there. He didn’t care what she did. He didn’t care who she was, who she wanted to become.

It’s all about appearances for her family. Susan and Heather are more obvious about it but Derek made no secret of it after that. He never asked her how classes were going, or about extracurriculars. He often just asked if she’d gone to a bar that was one of his old haunts, or asked about the weather.

Kate often thought about dropping out just to piss Derek off, just to see the look on his face. But besides the fact that she didn’t want to quit school just to spite her father, it felt wrong to make such a major life decision based on getting his attention.

She had drank a little in highschool but only at parties where she wasn’t driving home— so usually the ones she threw herself when Derek and Heather were out of town. She had used adderall just once before the SATs but didn’t like them so swore them off before the re-take. In Freshman year she was over underage drinking altogether and fell into the casual marijuana crowd for about a year. So by the time she graduated and they all decided to celebrate with a trip Kate had thought she’d been prepared. She was not prepared. No twenty-two year old is prepared to do acid.

She should have known it wasn’t going to go well because it was Wiccan and Loki’s idea and they were the types of people who called themselves, “Wiccan” and “Loki”.

The point is that Kate knows what it’s like to hallucinate on acid and she’s checked her body and found no other indication that she’s tripping balls right now. So, unfortunately, the pterodactyl in a lab coat walking around with a mechanical voice box strapped to its neck is real. Kate regrets that she didn’t have at least her phone camera to catch evidence of what she’s seeing. Because god damn was it hard to believe it. She’s strapped to a table and leaning at a forty-five degree angle.

She glances around the room and finds an operating table with a large shape hidden under a sheet. The sheet has with blood seeping in through it, like unhealed wounds opening. It doesn’t look like it’s moving. The only hint at what’s underneath is a sharp bone Kate sees sticking out from under the sheet. Interesting as that is, it’s not going to help her get out of here so she scans for an escape. Kate hones in on a little table with neat surgical tools laid out in lines shining under a bright light.

Kate can’t hold in the groan of disappointment. She didn’t want to get experimented on by a dinosaur. If it starts talking she’s going to scream.

“Oh you’re awake,” It says, the little speaker on it’s neck reading out robotic and one word at a time. Kate has heard that when people think of words their larynx moves even if they don’t say anything— a theory that if a machine could pick up on those microscopic vibrations the machine could translate them by thought alone. Kate doesn’t want to hear the unedited thoughts of a dinosaur in a lab coat.

The lab coat has two holes in the back to make room for the wings, and what really bothers Kate about that is it must be so much more work than it’s worth to put on a lab coat when you don’t have a human body. Surely any advantage a lab coat would offer a human wearer it can’t provide for a pterodactyl. This dino has sacrificed logic and comfort for dramatic flair. Kate groans because her sound equipment is shot and she could have really used it during the impeding monologue this thing is about to spout.

“Your young friend is still recovering,” The dinosaur approaches her and it’s worse to see it move in a human way despite that the body is all wrong for it. It feels painful in phantom places on Kate’s body that she doesn’t have. Looking at the beast move contradictory to its nature is cringe inducing. She closes her eyes and looks away. She needs to get it together. She pulls at her restraints to see if there’s any sort of give she can work with. She’s slipped cuffs plenty of times and this instance can’t be all that different. Doing it with her eyes closed makes it a little easier— nothing to see here means nothing to worry about. She’ll just ignore it and he’ll go away.

She’ll just pretend, for Derek’s sake, she’ll pretend it’s not there and maybe it’ll fix itself. Maybe it’s not so bad. If she just ignores it— 

A human groan, young and confused, makes Kate open her eyes. Strapped to the table next to her, now being turned and lowered to dip at the same angle as Kate’s, is a kid who can’t be much younger than Peter. When he opens his eyes, skittering around the room in terror, his whole body jumps trying to escape his ropes.

“Hey,” Kate snaps at him, quickly, and his eyes dart to hers wide with terror, “kid, what’s your name?” She asks.

“Chase,” He says, panting through the word but his chest rising and falling slower like answering a simple question is steadying him.

“Chase, I’m Kate,” She says, pulling at her ties in an attempt to put her hand to her chest, “I need you to stay calm. We’re gonna get out of this.” She’s shocked at how sure she sounds— she just imagined that Sam was there, saying it to her, and just the thought of that made it feel real. Sam is on his way. She’s going to be fine. She can get out of this.

The dinosaur laughs but because it’s computerized it is more just the phonetic “h” and “a” played back and forth for about sixteen counts of the syllable. Kate looks at their captor, her mind settling into the weirdness of the situation, her threshold for “normal” skyrocketing tonight. She can’t wait to tell America about this. Clint better get some footage of this guy.

He has a name tag pinned to his ill fitting lab coat that reads “K. Lykos” and Kate chooses to stare at that while she speaks to it, rather than trying to decide how she’s supposed to look this thing in the eye— literally: it has one eye on either side of it’s head and she can only look at one at a time but his head is turned at an angle where she can _kind of_ see both eyes. Now she’s feeling dizzy for other reasons. Like following one blade of a ceiling fan for too long.

“Doctor Lykos?” She ventures a guess and his beak opens and closes in a gasp of joy.

“You are familiar with my work?” He asks her, clasping two claws together as if holding his own hands, maybe ringing them with pride at being recognized. “You’re a reporter, yes?” The way his computer box speaks along with soft little caws from the feather lizard itself reminds Kate of her grandmother’s parrot asking a trained question.

“Yes, we’re working on the story of all the progress you’ve made here,” Kate plays along, again reminded of her grandmother. That expectation to answer certain questions a certain way so as not to upset Grandma. Kate knows her way around a conversation someone else wants her to have. “Do you have any comments to release?”

“A comment. From me? Yes, of course, very good, let me think now,” Lykos taps his long clawed finger against the split in his face meant to be his lips. “I’m afraid I’m not prepared for a comment at this time.” The bird looks around, up at the domed ceiling and in all the corners before he looks back at her. “Johann is more the man for comments. He likes to talk.” The dinosaur spreads his wings, tosses his face back, and caws into the room. It echoes fiercely, it multiplies, Lykos letting out several more screeches and soon the room fills as if there were a parliament of the feathered lizards gathered to watch them get picked away at.

“Why don’t you start by explaining the work,” Kate offers, having to say it twice, the second time as a shout. As the cawing flitters out of the dome, she repeats the question a third time at a reasonable tone and he nods.

“That’s an excellent idea, work speaks for itself,” The doctor promises turning and gesturing at Chase strapped to the table. “You see, it doesn’t just start with the boy, he’s an important piece, of course. Hadn’t been able to snatch him until tonight. His mother keeps him in the shade of trees normally. Very hard boy to snatch, but I have done it.” As if it is a joy that literally can’t be contained inside him he trills his throat and the sound spirals, engulfing the space of the room in the ancient cry of bliss.

“You know my house?” Chase asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. That’s good, Kate will take confusion over fear most days. It’s easier to react in a state of confusion, not so much for fear.

“I wish he would not speak,” Lykos says and even though it is mechanical, Kate notes how his body sighs in exasperation— language is often stronger with the body, sometimes thoughts are broadcast without realizing it. “His father spoke quite a lot and I did not enjoy it. Johann did— that is about his work though. His work is helpful but it does not bear talking of.” Lykos reaches towards Chase, fists a claw in his hair and forces him to sit up straight and confront the beast eye to eye. “We have the voice; that is the important thing. Noise is very important, it tethers us, like a rope, we simply unravel it and weave it again. Noise unwinds the rope.” The claw lets go of Chase’s hair and instead works to brush it away from the boy’s ears.

Kate almost has her hand pulled out of the restraint on her other side, the one not directly in Lykos’s line of sight. She just needs one hand— she can get an advantage with just one hand free.

“So we start with an interruption and a noise,” Lykos explains, walking away from Chase and over to a panel board hoisted on the wall. He reaches and swiftly presses buttons and turns knobs in a way that makes Kate think of The Wizard Of Oz. She doesn’t want to know what’s behind the curtain. “We can’t use you, Miss Reporter,” Lykos explains, turning a knob until the volume is turned up in the room. Chase looks struck by the noise as a man’s voice— not the harsh metallic clink of the dinosaur’s voice box but a recording of a man— reads out into the room, “You just wait until I get home,” it says, then squeals in rewind and plays again. Each squeak of the tape makes Kate cringe in discomfort but the reaction is different for Chase: it’s like the phrase is the worst noise he’s hearing.

“We play this at the same time as the heart beat,” Lykos flips a switch. Loud enough that it makes the table they’re tied to tremble, is the amped up sound of a heart beat. It’s so much louder than it needs to be and it plays until Chase’s head droops and his eyes close before Lykos lowers the volume until it plays like a whisper in the room. “So you see we found that it’s the heart, the connection. It all works together, the brain is ready to relive that moment and the trauma makes the brain vulnerable. So the beat lulls them to that space while the voice controls them.”

Kate’s fingers are sweaty but that only makes it easier to slip her hand out the rest of the way. She reaches steadily for her hidden pockets in the pair of lulu lemons that Teddy made fun of her for always wearing despite how little he sees her at the gym. Joke is on him: activewear is perfect for the rough and on the road journalism lifestyle of Rare Birds. Also, Kate likes that she can hide a knife on her— there’s something very Charlie’s Angels about it as a look.

“So then, what do you do?” Kate asks, glancing at the ground to watch Lykos’s clumsy steps on the balls of clawed feet. Something about it reminds Kate of the raw footage of Benedict Cumberbatch playing Smaug. “Our readers are very curious about that bit.”

“That’s the fun part,” Lykos clinks his claws together in excitement but it doesn’t accelerate to a caw this time. Possibly that noise could disrupt whatever is happening to Chase, who looks dead on his feet. “We have so many options. We can make him a driver, that’s when we double up, you see?” Lykos asks her, as if she understands, as if she could physically see what he means having never been shown before. “We keep his heart in there,” Lykos explains pointing to Chase, “but then we make a copy of it and put it in a beast.”

Kate’s entire body freezes as she looks back at the sheet in the back— the one that wasn’t moving before but _is_ moving now, large and with blood stains leaking into the soft blue. A bleeding ghost rising to wail like a banshee. Lykos walks to the sheet and Kate manages to keep her eyes open when he tears the sheet away to reveal a large bleeding cat.

It appears to have been patched up and sedated. Kate notes the way it breathes, how it is in exact synchronization with Chase.

“Those have been the most successful. But I prefer family connections. It can be messy, you see, to be a beast and see your human body. Goes badly. Rumlow ate himself up. That is going badly. Very, very badly, you see? Mustn’t let that happen.” Lykos wags a claw at her like she’s the one who messed up with Rumlow, like she must be very careful not to make a slip up like that again. Kate nods along, makes her face as serious and remorseful as the tone of the dinosaur warrants. She just needs one good throw but she only has one. She’ll have to be fast. Knife throwing is one of the hobbies she’s kept up with. All her circus training is coming in handy today.

“We’ve got his father ready to go into this one,” Lykos turns his back to them in order to focus on the purring saber tooth tiger on the slab. Kate raises her knife.

*

Sam keeps eyes on the path behind them while Clint looks ahead of them, using the night vision lens of the camera to keep Rogers and his man in view. Clint slows to a stop when they meet at the fork Bucky warned them of. He stops to point them in the opposite direction. Sam isn’t so sure about going until he finds the sign next to a map in the direction Bucky is pointing. Sam goes in that direction not because Barnes told him to but because a map is something Sam can trust. Clint follows him and turns the head lamp onto the map so they can read it. Sam runs his hand over the layout trying to imagine the space around him physically, what it will look like when he takes what turns to get to the right floor. He finds “Lykos Lab” on the map pretty easily but he’s still not sure about going to it. How could this Bucky guy really know where Kate went? How would he know without being involved? And would a guy in as deep as Bucky and Steve both seem to be, actually lead Sam and Clint anywhere they wanted to go? Safely? Sam can’t be so sure.

But they had no other options, no other clues to go off of even in the map itself. Clint steps closer to touch the map and point out the fire exits and emergency stairs. Sam figures they should try to stay on the fire escape path, that is the most likely to be an easy and smooth exit, assuming this place cared if someone burned up alive here. In any case, this was the most straightforward thing on the map— at least for this floor. There seemed to be a series of dashed lines indicating some kind of half door? They can’t be walls because the way they connect is mind boggling and confusing. It’s a honeycomb shaped maze of dotted lines.

There’s no fire alarm but the ceiling goes dark and then lights up in emergency red. Just as he’s trying to puzzle out why, Sam hears a scream, a woman crying out in the dark of the hall. He parts from the map and follows the noise down the hall. “Kate?” Sam shouts, picking up pace when the screaming stops for a brief pause and starts up again. Sam barely registers Clint behind him somewhere, footstep loud in the dark, enough that Sam ceases to worry whether Clint is following him or not. Sam saw the map long enough, he thinks, to run through twists and turns. He doesn’t wait, Clint can keep up no matter how frequently Sam splits off from the path. Kate is screaming somewhere and Sam knows he’s getting closer.

“Kate, we’re coming,” Sam calls out. She pauses, always just long enough, to hear him shout words of comfort before she screams again. There’s something off about it, the way it sounds exactly the same every time, how it’s fear but not pain influenced. What could be consistently scaring Kate into screaming that loud? Is he even sure that’s Kate’s voice? He’s never heard her scream before— just in laughter but that’s nothing like what he’s hearing now.

He comes to the center of something— there’s an octagonal shaped room that’s colder than the rest of the area. It has one door and the walls are glass. Sam steps into it and gazes at wires and buttons, a wall of monitors that blink into a face composed of zeros and ones, moved by different pixels blinking at him in practice. It’s not like a mouth moving but it is as close as a computer can get. Sam hopes that Clint is going to enter the room soon with the camera, they’ve got to get footage of this place. It’s some kind of electrical hub with an AI watching.

“Hello,” the computer says, in a thick accent that sounds rehearsed but fabricated; if a voice were a quilt and had been constructed incorrectly, making words out of syllables it had in storage. “I am Doctor Johann Fenoff. It is nice to meet you,” The mouth opens and closes somewhat in time with the words from the speaker. There’s something unnerving about the way the mouth doesn’t move true to the way human lips do. Sam isn’t sure when he became so accustomed to that, but it uneases him deeply to know that there are no lips to read here. He turns around and finds that Clint is not there.

“Can you state your name for our records? We may have some screams on file for you,” The computer asks, and Sam shakes his head and looks back at the monitor. Sam scans the ground and finds that there are open panels in straight lines all around him. There’s something of a confusing pattern made with these lines, how some of them intersect to stop the others and the furthest ones away are wide and apart from each other.

“Sam Wilson,” Sam says, looking around for an exit. He clocks a similar pattern on the ceiling of open panels. “What are you a doctor of, exactly?”

“No files for a Wilson,” The computer replies. The sound above him sounds like metal slotting into place, too loud, too many, before the lines in the ceiling open up and slabs made of reflective glass lowers all around him. Sam is still in the center, just him and the face of the computer, but behind him all he knows is his own reflection bent and multiplied creating a maze of illusion between himself and Clint. “That’s unfortunate. We’ll start with the basics then,” The computer informs him, bringing up the sound of that woman— who Sam knows now is not Kate, just some female stranger whose pain was recorded and looped back— screaming played over a quick heartbeat. The way his heart pounds in his chest when he’s running, when there’s danger and he goes flying in to rescue people. The sounds start to make him feel weak and he crouches into a ball on the floor.

“Stop,” he groans, putting his hands over his ears and trying to shut his eyes so tight that everything disappears. The sound is louder in the dark but Sam can feel the noise vibrating in his eyes if they’re open. He says it again, but now there’s a high pitched sound like a siren blared inside his head.

“Focus,” The computer says and then, slower and kinder, “focus, Mister Wilson. Think of a nice memory.” Sam’s mind filters through memories without consulting him and he remembers the day he told Sarah that he got the job at Trish Talk. She just screamed in his face and jumped into hugging him. He remembers lifting her as he jumped up and down with joy, screaming right back.

“Who is with you, Mister Wilson,” The voice asks, and rather than feeling like a mangled string of syllables he sounds kind, friendly, an easy voice to listen to.

Sam feels a little less aware of how painful that heartbeat is. He’s with Sarah. She’s going to ask him where he wants to go to celebrate. She’s going to have to take him to his favorite restaurant even though she hates it. He’s going to eat a ton of hummus and feta. She’ll say she doesn’t want any dates wrapped in fig leaves but she’ll eat three of his anyway.

He says her name, the one he calls her when she’s being sneaky about his food or borrowing his charger whenever she comes over. She liked Maria.

“Tell me all about Sarah,” The man prompts, “and don’t worry if you get sleepy. Just focus.”

Sam focuses on his sister. He can’t even hear that screaming anymore.

***

The roar is louder but it sounds manic, like the scream of an animal near death, not trying to beg or even to scare the predator away. It’s the scream of existence, the rallying cry of “I am here. I was.” because animals have no last words. They only have the noise of blood in them and it gets so loud close to death that they need to roar it out.

Molly always thinks when she dies she’ll scream prayers— not because she thinks it’s hard for God to hear them, all the way under the ground in the lab, but so they all know she suffered but she had words. Of all the heart beats they forced on her they couldn’t make her human— to pray is to be human.

When Gert dies— Molly won’t think of it. There’s something impossible about the idea. She is so steady, her heartbeat is strong and always near, Gert would never die. Gert would never leave her like that.

The dinosaur rushes at the lion and gets a claw swipe to the cheek for her trouble. It’s a hiss this time from the lion and there’s so much blood around them. Molly feels dizzy— like she’ll pass out at the worst possible time. Her legs get a little weak but Gert wraps an arm around her and holds her up. She doesn’t say it but Molly hears it anyway: “I’ve got you.”

Gert has blood on her jacket and Molly notices it first before the source of the blood leaking out of her sister’s nose.

Molly acts before she can think, gathering her sleeve up in her palm and pressing it to Gert’s face before her hand is pushed away. There’s a kind of determination that is frightening and familiar on Gert’s face and somehow Molly knows that if she put her ear to the ribcage of Old Lace the heartbeat would be the same.

“I’ve got you,” Gert says again, the exact same way as before, as when Molly was little, always the same way. Nothing changing in pitch or pauses— like there’s a record player inside Gert’s throat and she couldn’t change the cadence if she wanted to.

Dale and Staci work together to shove and roll the lion into the hole. Molly feels sick at the sound of it thumping somewhere dark and cold below them.

Molly tucks her knees to her chest and makes her body a small ball hidden completely by the roller coaster buggy. She can see the shadows of her adopted parents stretched high on the pillars of the roller coaster, lit up in red, orange, and yellow from behind. Monsters born in the fire, dancing in it like shadows. They grow and change as they move, Staci standing up tall and putting her hands on her hips, groaning when she leans back like she’s trying to pop something.

“We need to get the girls,” Staci says, her messy hair whipping from side to side as she scans the park for them. Molly draws her knees in tighter and holds her breath. She doesn’t know where Gert is hiding but she hopes Staci and Dale leave without looking around.

Molly remembers a woman with long brown hair carrying groceries to her car late at night. They poked at her until she cried and left her on the corner in the back alley. The woman with long hair crouched down low, spoke softly and sweetly to Molly, but didn’t reach out to touch her. Molly remembers the woman giving her a smile and then she’s asleep on the ground and her parents are lifting her into the back of their van. “Gert talks too much,” Her mother says, “It’s much quicker with Molly.”

She remembers so few words in English but she hears it play on a loop in her mind, the last words she’d ever hear her mother say, praising her baby for not speaking too much, for crying alone in the dark.

The van is still that same one, the one Dale and Staci stepped out of, the one they keep the engine running while they talk about finding their daughters. “Everyone is distracted, this is our chance to get away,” Dale says and Molly doesn’t know where they plan to take them but she knows she doesn’t want to go. “We’ve got Old Lace, we can use her to track Gert.”

“We need to hurry,” Staci says, her shadow wringing her hands like she always does when she’s nervous— usually if Pierce is around. “We don’t have time to wait. If we don’t leave now we’ll never get out of here.”

Dale’s long arm reaches out and pets Old Lace on the snout, stroking in a downward motion that Old Lace leans into. After a few soft strokes Dale says, in a gross baby voice, “Find our girl now.”

Molly holds her breath fearing that the dinosaur is going to sniff about the air and hone in on them. She isn’t even sure it can find them by scent, but weirder things have happened tonight. The dinosaur takes one step closer to the buggy Molly is in, the shadow grows bigger than Staci and Dale’s figures. Molly closes her eyes because she can’t watch it approach. She’ll scream if she has to watch that.

“I’m here,” Gert calls out. Molly gasps and opens her eyes. Before she can reach out and stop her, Gert is up and walking around the buggy and through the slates of the roller coaster. Molly shoves her shirt sleeve into her mouth and bites down— she is caught between the danger of screaming and the primal need to do so. Even though Gert’s given herself up the dinosaur steps closer to Molly anyway.

“Gert,” Staci cries out and rushes over to her daughter, throwing her arms around her and swaying her back and forth. Gert tenses in the embrace and recoils away as best she can in Staci’s vice grip. Staci fusses over her eldest, “You must be so scared, baby.”

“Where’s your sister?” Dale asks, voice urgent and Molly realizes the engine has been running all this time. They really are in a hurry if they’re risking pumping fumes into the air just to leave quicker.

“I don’t know,” Gert lies and Staci’s shadow pulls off of Gert to look at her, “she wanted to see this hall of mirrors and we got separated.”

“Johann,” Dale says it like a curse and Staci starts to wring her hands again. “That’s the worst thing.”

“Poor girl,” Staci’s voice breaks a little, “we can’t get her out and still leave. We have to go.” Molly slams her hand over her mouth to hold in a broken sob. She hadn’t expected something so cold and heartless as that. It aches to overhear.

Gert is hearing none of it. She snaps back at her birth parents, “I’m not going anywhere without Molly,” and she means it. Gert has her back, puts no one above her. “Or Chase,” Gert adds quickly, as if she had forgotten about him and needed to sound like she hadn’t.

It occurs to Molly that she had something special but no less horrifying with Staci and Dale. She ate at their table and slept in a room next to their blood child, but in the end she was ultimately just the work they had put into her. Gert, who they birthed and then caged had something different about her— if they could not have both then she was the priority. Molly feels sick wondering if it had been switched what her parents would say if they had only Gert but no Molly.

“We can’t argue with you on this,” Dale says, fumbling for something in several of the many pockets on his cargo pants until he pulls out a little black rectangle judging by its shadow. Dale plays a sound, something like a steady beat played under words that Molly can’t make out.

Gert can hear them though and she recognizes them for what they are, putting her hands over her ears and screaming as loud as she can to block it out. Staci moves to grab Gert, maybe to pull her hands off of her ears, but Old Lace has instinct and a very specific loyalty and she puts herself between Staci and her daughter and hisses. Staci backs up, all the way until she’s behind Dale who holds up the cattle prod and sticks it into the husk of the raptor.

There are two screams, simultaneously, from both Gert and Old Lace and their shadows fall in perfect synchronicity. Whatever connection they’ve programmed into the two of them, it’s down- right telepathic in nature.

Dale rushes to Gert and lifts her up like she’s a little kid again having fallen asleep in the back of the car. He rushes her into the van. Staci kneels down to Old Lace and makes several valiant tugs to move the beast’s body but it doesn’t budge.

“Darling,” Dale calls back to her, shutting the back door to the van, “we don’t have time. We need to hit the exit _now_.”

Staci whines, a pathetic noise in the back of her throat, but she whines while moving, getting into the passenger’s side of the van while Dale slides into the driver’s seat.

Headlights beam up when Dale turns them on and then they detract as they pull out from the roller coaster and their wheels screech as Dale accelerates them out of town. They’re gone rather quickly and they just _left_ Molly there.

Molly jumps out from behind the roller coaster wagon and scrambles towards Old Lace. Her breathing is steady and Molly feels safe touching her and giving a good shake.

It’s a few breathless shoves before the raptor’s eyes open and it looks at Molly with recognition. It stands and shakes itself free of dust and loose feathers from nose tip to tail. It takes a few steps towards the tire tracks and Molly stands up from the ground on her own and takes two big strides up to the animal and gently pets the softer feathers on her neck. The raptor gives a little trill that makes it sound cute and friendly, like Molly is some kind of Disney Princess to vicious dinosaurs.

“You want to get Gert? We gotta save her,” Molly explains. Old Lace kneels down and Molly jumps on quickly, probably a little too eager to ride bareback on a big raptor bird. Old Lace lifts to full height and then takes off at full speed following the fresh tire tracks.

*

Steve can smell Bucky so crisp and clear as they walk through the dark tunnels, Bucky moves without hesitation. This is a place he knows, could sleep walk his way around it like their cottage or the Barnes house. Steve sticks close to him, comforted by how close the walls make them stand together so he can’t lose track of Bucky again. He’s never going to let go of Bucky this time. Bucky is remembering things— how long until he knows Steve again?

They come to a hall where the fluorescents flicker on around them, motion censored, and Bucky just keeps walking at that determined pace like nothing has changed. It looks like a hospital, Steve saw the inside of more hospitals than he wanted to, but this isn’t exactly the same. Steve remembers visiting Bucky on the docks after he got the job there. Whinnie, Becca, and he all went on the “haunted tour” of the biggest ship ported at the time, an old Duth freighter from an earlier war still kept working for tours about it’s glory.

The lab looks like the inside of a metal ship, cold and full of hauntings, shadows that move on their own, the rattling of chains coming from below them. Steve is observing the space so much he almost loses track of Bucky, but with the lights on Steve catches up to him in a couple of fast strides.

“Where are we going, Buck?” Steve asks, and Bucky winces at the name so Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’m with you until the end of the line. Just tell me where it is.”

“Radioactive isotope,” Bucky says. Even though Steve can’t possibly know what that means, there must be something in his voice that gives away the weight of it. Bucky knows what must be done. Steve will know now too and will he still be with Bucky until the end of this line?

“That sounds dangerous,” Steve prompts him, something familiar about his tone that Bucky recognizes from the lecture he’s heard from Steve about a million things.

“It’s hard to kill these things. You need a lot of weaponry, some fire power if you can get it. But a shot into the heart with a radioactive isotope,” Bucky pauses and all he wants in the world is a cigarette. It doesn’t even have to be lit; he just wishes he had something to shuffle through his fingers.

“It can kill Bex, can’t it?” Steve asks. What upsets Bucky the most about it is hearing Steve call her “Bex”. It feels so out of place for them.

“If it can be loaded into a gun I can fire it,” Bucky says, and it’s a confession— he’s letting Steve know his sins before he commits them. He’ll ask for forgiveness later, there’s only one way out that’s right for them— he knows his sister. He knows how she aches. He knows that she wants this heart to stop beating— it’s not hers. The body doesn’t belong to any of them, it doesn’t belong to this time.

“I’ll need to go up top,” Bucky explains, “to the fair grounds to get a high vantage point.”

“What about Peirce?” Steve asks. Bucky comes to an abrupt stop and Steve nearly topples over him when he bumps against Bucky. The see the gun poke out of the door first aimed at them. Then, stepping out the rest of the way, Alexander Peirce makes himself seen and he’s already sneering at Steve. Bucky puts his hand up and so Steve does the same, glancing around them for an escape. He could probably get the upper hand on Peirce if the opportunity presented itself.

“You can’t kill her,” Alexander says, staring into Bucky’s eyes and presenting it like a jeer at Bucky’s expense, “You don’t have it in your heart to do that.”

“What do you want to do with him, Bucky?” Steve asks, calm as if they aren’t both under gun point right now.

“I’ve hidden the isotope,” Alexander snaps, spitting a little as he says it. “It’s buried deep where you can’t get to it.”

Bucky’s head turns to the room, the doorway that Peirce just stepped out of, and he takes two steps towards it before Alexander panics and waves the gun around in warning. Bucky stills and raises his hand in defense again.

“He put it in the tank and took it down,” Bucky tells Steve— there must be a protocol that PEirce is following, one that was put into Bucky’s head. In any case, it is so obviously true to what has happened that Peirce gets red in the face over it—Bucky knowing insults his values.

But that’s impossible, Steve thinks as he rushes forward and tackles Alexander Peirce to the ground, because Peirce has no core values. He’s a devil and he’s going to hell if Steve has to drag him there himself.

The gun is easy to pry out of Peirce’s shaking grip and once Steve has it aimed at his face the old man stills; it makes Steve think of “resting bitch face” in fact and he smiles down.

Steve keeps the gun on him as he stands up and away. It takes a couple of minutes but Peirce rolls himself upright and then stands, hands raised and looking for an opportunity to snatch that power back.

Bucky points to the room, “I’ll go first, you follow right behind me, _Dad_ ,” Bucky instructs him, a thrill lighting up his eyes to be giving Alexander orders, “and Steve’s gonna come up to keep the gun on you.”

Alexander nods and waits a few moments after Bucky goes into the room before he makes good on his part to also go in there. The two of them step in at roughly the same time.

It’s a sub tank. Something hovering at the very bottom of the building, as deep to the heart of the cliff side, the place on the ocean floor that the stone sinks beneath. It must be as close as they could build it before they hit stone. Steve can tell from the drip in the corner of the room, coming from a large egg-shaped brass pod that sits around windows. The pod has been lowered recently, hence why it’s wet.

Steve keeps replaying what Bucky had said about this isotope, that it’s the only one of its kind. It’s rare and they need it— Steve waves his gun to the pod and Alexander moves one stomping step at a time towards the pod and steps into it. Steve is quick to put himself in front of the door, holding it from shutting Alexander inside and keeping them from their only path to the bullet.

The bullet for Bex. That Bucky has to fire directly into her heart. He can’t hold it and he lays his head down in the palm of his hands and just tries to think of what her heartbeat sounds like, how it was always bigger than his because she got the bigger piece of heart when they were born.

He lifts his head up and wipes tears away, remembering that the isotope is hot and he needs a special bit of equipment to handle it. Bucky closes his eyes again and takes a few steps until he finds the metal panel of a vent that has no air blowing through it. Bucky makes quick work of pulling it open and there rests his arm, a little dusty and scratched all to hell but it’s his left arm and he has felt lost without it.

Putting it on himself is harder than it looks but the thing is magnetized and it slots into place. They took his arm and made use of the replacement. It can withstand the exothermic energy of the isotope. Bucky wiggles the fingers, again imagining a cigarette between them as it bounces with ease back and forth of his delicate knuckles.

Bucky bends down, feels around in the vent a little more and then pulls out to glare at Alexander. “Where are the gloves?” Bucky asks, like a mother scolding a child.

Alexander doesn’t answer but he doesn’t need to. It’s only a quick glance at Alexander’s lab coat that reveals the gloves tucked into his pocket, large enough to poke out at the top. Bucky takes two steps towards the pod, ready to descend with his captor and his captain, when the intercom above them crackles into life. “Mister Peirce,” The voice says, thick with a Russian accent and Bucky fears the words spoken in a language he’s learned through pain and repetition. The voice speaks in English. “The girls are being stolen away by the Doctors Yorkes,” Bucky’s heart stops as he thinks of Gert and Molly, trapped in the care of parents that torture them. Bucky can’t let anything bad happen to them. They’re just girls, he needs to protect them and they are so close to destroying all the pain Alexander Peirce has bled into the soil of this place. It sleeps inside the rock, cold and beating around them.

“I need to save them,” Bucky says quickly looking now to Steve and feeling every part of him besides his metal arm trembling at the thoughts, “if Staci and Dale get away with them we may never—”

“Go,” Steve shouts at him, so loud and quickly and Bucky jumps a couple of inches into the air. Steve repeats the word but then adds, “I’ll bring the isotope to you. Meet me at the highest point on the fairgrounds, got it?”

Bucky nods and rushes through the open door. He makes it a few feet down the hall and skids to a stop. He turns around, slides back into the room and catches Steve before he can fully board the pod and close the door. Bucky doesn’t give him time for questions, he grabs Steve by the shirt collar, pulls him in, and kisses him like a promise. It’s a promise Steve remembers, is fond of and, most importantly, one Bucky has made good on. Steve is never going to get rid of Bucky— he’s in his heart beat and his bones and this is a kiss that promises that.

Bucky holds Steve's shirt collar for a few more minutes after he’s finished with the kissing before he lets go and rushes, again, out the door.

He remembers he’ll need to find his gun on the way. Maybe Staci and Dale still have the tranq gun in the van. Bucky’s metal hand clenches and his flesh one mimics it.

*


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was stronger than everything else we had to hold him,” Pierce scoffs, without humor and then adds, “His mind, that is, not his body. That was easily held back. But nothing could quiet him from sending the command to Rebecca.” The memory fills him with such distaste that Alexander stops for a moment as if swallowing back bile. “She could not be held in the lower levels anymore. Broke and flooded the lab getting out to you. And then the damn foghorn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final posting week! The end is nigh babes!

Chapter Nine

Kate doesn’t want to see what happens to Chase when Lykos has completed an experiment. From the way the pterodactyl moves about the room Kate can tell that the method works. Chase could be about to lose himself, or his father, to the thing Lykos is poking at on the operating table. It’s a claw on the wing that he uses to poke at it— he’s got some human-like body parts, particularly in the torso the dinosaur looks human and malformed, neither beast nor scientist but some grotesque monster in between. The results of this twisted body with an even more twisted mind tangle inside of it, means the body has a lot of claws. Too many claws, Kate would say, nothing requires more than four claws, maximum. Lykos, by her count, has six.

As one of his excess claws pokes at the moaning cat, Kate throws the knife. The blade goes through the skin of the wing, pinning his wing to the wall and scattering feathers up into the air. Lykos screams when his flesh is pierced, and continues until it rises into a caw. He desperately flaps his pinned wing. The sound is painful, loud, everywhere, and disruptive enough to snap Chase out of whatever trance he was lulled into. He looks around, blinking tears out of his eyes. Kate doesn’t have time to wait for him to come back to full form. She unlatches her other arm from the table and then both of her legs before she hops off of it. Her legs are a little uneasy beneath her; she’s had a long night and they feel overused. She forces them to move anyway.

Lykos is still trapped in the panic flapping phase of his attack, but the second Kate gets to Chase and starts to unlatch him from the table, the more human base part of his brain takes over. He uses his excess claw to pull the knife out of the wall, out of his wing, and then drops it unceremoniously to the ground. Kate can hear the blood dripping from his injury, but he’s not moving very fast towards them. It’s probably hard for the body to move unnaturally, so mangled between species and the mind just the same. It is a lot of effort on Lykos’s part and this gives her enough time to unhook Chase and tug him towards an emergency exit.

They run down the hall, in the dark, for what feels like hours, but Kate only counts ten deep lungfuls of air as they sprint together away from the creature. Kate comes to a halt at a fork in the hall. A simple decision, left or right, only a fifty-fifty choice and there’s no way for them to know what danger lurks either way. Kate closes her eyes, her panting breaths are now a distraction so she tries to find a calm and easy motion of breaths— something that doesn’t dull her hearing.

She can hear water running near them, to the right distinctly, and she rushes down in that direction. She was snatched at water, it makes sense that an exit out of here would be wherever things were flowing.

She glances back a few times to check that Chase is keeping pace with her. His eyes are red rimmed and a little wide in horror, but his body, at least, is focused on running and following Kate without question. He reminds her, just a little, of Parker. Not that she and Parker ever ran from danger quite like this, but still, it’s nice to have a friend right now.

Hopefully, they’ll find Sam and Clint too. Since they followed her on the boat, they must be coming in via water themselves and so all rivers and streams lead to the same source. Hopefully, there’s an escape the way she’s going.

“Why do you just have a knife?” Chase asks, once his stride matches her. She waits a moment before replying, seeing that they’re coming up on another split in the hall and she needs to listen for the sound of water.

She takes a left, hugging the curve of the turn and Chase right alongside her, before she replies, “I like to always have a weapon.”

Whatever his reaction to that answer, Kate doesn’t see it— she comes to an abrupt halt at a fire exit, something lit up in a violent red glow at the end of the corridor. Chase runs into her, smacks his chest into her back and then blunders out an apology until she holds a hand up and shushes him.

“I haven’t heard him,” she says, voice at a normal volume, “I don’t think he could follow us very quickly.”

There’s a long scratch on concrete, coming from the direction they ran from, and Kate knows it must be the scratch of claws on the stone around them. She doesn’t wait— she swears it isn’t fear that propels her forward, just instinct or a survival skill— she pushes through the fire exit door and finds a flight of stairs. They’re dark at the bottom but they are a diagonal line downward instead of the unsteady spiraling of the lighthouse staircase.

She rushes down and even though she hears his footfalls Kate still keeps checking behind her to make sure Chase is close and Lykos is not. As they run, emergency red lights show their way but they stop half way down.

Kate is sure that they continue, maybe they have been destroyed or otherwise crumbled down below, she can’t be sure, because the bottom floors have flooded— or at least this one leading to an exit. Kate gets a little under knees deep in water before she stops and holds a hand out behind her to stop Chase.

“It’s flooded. Can you swim?” Kate asks him. “Do you see a way out?”

“Sailing lessons,” Chase answers and then, after realizing that wasn’t an answer, adds, “Swimming and sailing go hand and hand. I’ve done some deep diving before too. We can maybe swim in.”

Kate nods and looks around the room before it lights up from Chase pulling out his phone. He has a working phone— that makes her feel a little safer but then immediately anxious that he definitely not get into the water. They only have one working phone between them and if they lose Chase’s they may not get out of here.

Chase holds his phone up, turns it around the room in a full three hundred and sixty degree turn and then lowers it. He gives Kate a dejected shrug and explains, “No bars. Too far down.”

She curses under her breath, signing it out with her hand on reflex even though Clint isn’t here to catch it. Chase keeps the flashlight on and points it in the water below them to light it up a little.

Kate can see better, with the light now, that there is a door just about six feet down at the bottom of the stairs. There’s a hole blown into the side, most likely where the water is coming from but other than going back up the stairs there’s no way out.

She looks around and realizes that they don’t have a choice— they will have to dive and swim for it.

Lykos is a darkly hunched figure at the top of the stairs, resting on the railing, still and dark like a statue. He tips forward, and as he falls through the air, Kate thinks he’s going to fall fast and land heavy in the water like a stone. Maybe he’s bled and suffered so much that he finally gave out.

They are not that lucky. Lykos tumbles through the air and then opens his wings, cawing and screeching through the pain of the one injured wing being forced to function. He’s not a perfect flier with it injured but he’s fast and poised enough to angle his body into a missile and fly down at them.

“Out the door,” Kate yells at Chase and then, hoping that the kid remains quick on his feet, she turns and dives head first into the water.

America teaches swim classes to kids on weekends. America is an excellent swimmer, loves the water, and has been winning medals competitively for a long time. She doesn’t compete so much anymore, she told Kate it just wasn’t something she wanted to make a career out of but she still wanted to do it often. The swimming lessons supplied that for America— even when Kate was her student for a few months. It was diving Kate was best at, the form and the right way to fall taught into her body by the trapeze skills she kept polished. But actually swimming through water, fighting current, fighting through pressure all around her, was the hardest bit for her.

She struggles, but she makes it down to the door and tugs it. It isn’t locked, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to open. She tugs at it, fighting the current that holds it closed but only when Chase’s hands join hers on the door are they able to pull it open, together.

Lykos dives into the water, going so far down that the bubbles all pop before he rises again. Kate pushes Chase to swim through first and then follows just as a pair of orange and reptilian eyes lock on them and swim in great strides with a flap of his wings. He’s fast underwater— like a gator locking with prey and moving with teeth first. She manages to pull the door shut behind them, and after she hears the metallic thump of Lykos hitting the door, she turns and swims upwards. She remembers the strokes and how to kick her legs. In a way, her body has taken over and it knows which way to swim, where up is based on the light.

She breaks the surface, inhales deep and then bobs her head up and down as she looks about them. They’re in another segment of the building, one that seems to be, in part, the natural cliff side that the facility has been built into. She spots Chase brushing his wet mop of hair out of his eyes and scanning the dark water they float in for signs that Lykos could be up at any moment.

Kate sees a platform near them, a place where the water meets a dock, and Kate breastrokes to it. She climbs onto the platform, body dripping so much water everywhere Kate feels like the water level in the room should be lower now. She turns around and pulls Chase up as well.

There’s a space where the cave lets out outside and Kate peers as far into the dark as she can to see if there’s a beast climbing up, still struggling against tall stone. She sees nothing like that, just the quiet noises of a dock in the dark. Kate shutters, possibly from the wind drifting in the cold, her clothes wet enough to chill her further. But she feels uneasy not to know the location of such a terrifying creature.

Lykos seems like a monster whose greatest sin is conviction. He wants his experiments so badly— he would stop at nothing to complete them. Death itself might have a shot but certainly something as mundane as a locked door would not keep him from the hunt.

*

Long awaited kiss or not, they can’t stay wrapped up in each other forever, so unfortunately it’s only one kiss, punctuated by Tandy pecking the left corner of his mouth, the side that rises higher than the other when he smiles, and pulling away. He stands up and helps her to her feet. She grabs her messenger bag and puts it over her shoulder. Ty picks up the sword and is surprised to find how heavy it is. His wrist hurts a little when he lifts it. He’s putting weight in the wrong places so he turns the sword in his hand and raises it up properly.

It’s still a piece of metal welded into the shape of a sword; it has knicks all over it and chipped paint. Ty has to laugh a little and Tandy looks at him confused.

“What’s so funny?” She asks.

“You bluffed,” Ty replies. He knows he’s gazing at her, but he also knows she doesn’t mind. She smirks, very pleased with herself.

She holds the proud smirk for just a few seconds before she asks, her voice loud to talk over the fear resting inside of it, “Weird that it worked right? I mean usually snakes aren’t smart enough to be lied to.”

“There’s something really weird happening here,” Ty agrees, turning the sword over in his grip before handing it back to Tandy. “We should get out of here. In case it’s smart enough to move rocks.”

“Or it knows another exit,” She suggests, taking a few steps forward and then stopping when she realizes she doesn’t know what direction to go. She sets the sword down, holds it between her knees and then removes the bag and offers it to him, “I can’t carry both, do you mind?” She asks and he takes it from her.

“Why would you say that?” Ty groans, adjusting the strap on his body and turning in a circle beside her and scanning the room for an emergency exit or something. There’s one, but the door has been torn off its hinges and the red of the EXIT is flashing. With the sword comfortably held in her right hand, Tandy takes Ty’s free left one.

Ty doesn’t need to remind Tandy to hold her breath as they cross over.

The stairs are dark. Like in the tunnel of love, there are red lights to lead the way but these bulbs are busted and broken. It looks more like climbing out of hell than to an upper floor.

The stairs end at the next floor anyway, so they pass out of that exit and find themselves in a long hallway. It looks more like a hospital than an evil laboratory. They walk into it with caution; Ty listening for the sounds of whatever has left claw marks in the walls. Ty keeps an eye out for an employee safety brochure, one that outlines “in case of animal farm but with dinosaurs” emergency procedures. From the claw marks on the wall and the dark smatterings of blood here and there along the floor it’s clear it was “Run. Just fucking Run”.

It’s cold and hungry like the chill of a morgue. Ty especially hates the hospital blue that lines everything around them as if the light bulbs themselves were painted heavy and dripping in the color.

Some of the motion lights come on when they pass under them and some don’t. Tandy stops to look at something on the wall and Ty lets her hand slide out of his as he keeps moving forward, trying to make out the shapes in the shadows, making sure they aren’t more snakes waiting to strike. 

Each of Ty’s steps jostle Tandy’s bag just a little and he can feel more than hear the clink of her stolen perfume bottles against each other. It sounds like a sistrum, like flat coins slapping together, circular and soothing is the beat, the sound of it. He is so focused on the noise he doesn’t hear Tandy catch up with him. He only knows it when she grabs the elbow of his hoodie and gives it a little tug.

The sound had lulled him into a quiet space in his mind so quickly. It must be a combination of the fighting for his life, his first kiss, and just the general overall weirdness of a secret evil laboratory underneath his home town all along, but he feels a little more drained tonight than usual. It’s a new kind of tiredness for him. It’s like a strong need to curl under a blanket and watch Netflix until he falls asleep for about forty-eight hours. He will eat only bugles and drink gatorade for sustenance and he will leave the bed when he damn well feels like it. Ty gets a little lost in that moment, the imagining of his future weekend, the perfect thing he needs after all this, and it’s Tandy’s voice calling out and tugging him by the sleeve of his hoodie to turn right in a place he hadn’t noticed was a long hallway.

“Where are we going?” Ty asks her. She seems so sure of herself in the dark.

The dark crevices of the turns look just like the stone of the halls they walk down so it like there aren’t any turns— somehow Tandy’s got enough vision in the dark to find them. “The maps say there’s a records room on this floor,” she answers and that doesn’t really tell him anything. He had assumed they were looking for a way out. “It attaches to an observatory lab and there’s an exit in the ceiling.” Or maybe she’s just feeling them out somehow, her body prone to hiding spaces and safe refuge, able to feel those out.

“In the ceiling? How are we supposed to exit through the ceiling?”

“I don’t know Ty,” She sighs, “but it doesn’t hurt to look anyway.”

She starts counting doors, and when she hits a six, she stops at it and jiggles the lock.

“You know how to pick it?” Ty asks, hand going to the messenger bag, ready to open it and pull out whatever Tandy needs to get in there.

“Nah, I wanna try something,” She says and if the tone of her voice hadn’t worried Ty it would be the way she screams, raises the sword, and smashes the bottom handle of the hilt onto the knob of the door. Ty winces but the impulse works out in Tandy’s favor— Tandy’s lucky that it does so frequently. It takes another two yells and more smashing of the hilt on the knob but the knob finally falls off and the door swings open with a sad kind of creaking.

“After you, good sir,” Tandy invites him, giving a mocking curtsy with her sword and pointing into the room. Ty returns her with as fancy a bow as he can muster and then walks into the room.

The room is circular, with labeled drawers lining the walls from top to bottom. It feels like an old room that’s been improved on over the years. But what could require this much space for records. The drawers are six by six and don’t appear to be locked. They can’t have anything in side of them that could be worth stealing. Although maybe when the laboratory is underground and a literal secret, in house security is more relaxed. Tandy immediately starts looking around at all of the labels and the drawers. There’s a ladder that rolls around the room, something to get to the higher up records and probably to the connection leading to the observatory.

Ty runs his fingers along the wall, pulls the messenger bag over a little when it keeps catching on the wall. He could swear he feels the drawers moving, like ghosts rattling in their coffins, the trembling of screams moving in the metal. Ty stops at one drawer randomly as soon as he has the thought— simply because he has to stop somewhere, there has to be one of these drawers that he opens and peaks inside of. What insides do these metal catacombs contain pulsing in their tightly sealed jars?

A blue sun dress for an older woman, maybe in her late twenties, and Mary Jane high heels a darker blue than the dress but still brings out the subtle shades of the flower petals. There’s a pack of cigarettes. Some flour dusted on the dress.

He looks down and finds a name on the side that he doesn’t recognize and something about that feels wrong, like it’s the private business of a stranger, taking flowers off of someone else’s grave, and so he slides it back into the wall.

He hears the sound of the ladder rolling along its tracks at a speed that it was probably not meant to. It surprises Ty very little to see Tandy on the second floor, flying around the circular room, one arm holding the sword out. She looks like she’s having fun and it makes him feel less alone. She brings noise in when he needs it and brings in quiet when he doesn’t. She stops abruptly, tipping the ladder off of one wheel too far forward and then landing safely back. Tandy pulls herself to where she meant to stop and scans each spine of the terabytes. Ty looks again at the labels, reading the name order and realizing that Tandy would have only stopped for one name.

Ty double checks the order of cases and realizes that Tandy isn’t anywhere near the “B”s but in the “J”s. Ty is in the “B”s actually, he realizes and starts to move away from “Ba” and towards “Bo”.

Tandy finds who she is looking for before Ty does. Ty knows it when she goes quiet and he looks up to see her perfectly still, quiet even, as she pulls out Billy’s drawer. Ty can read the name marked “William Billy Johnson” on the side. Tandy holds it close to her body; she cradles it like something delicate and precious. Tandy steps gently down the ladder. Ty feels like his feet are stuck— he just needs to make a few steps across the room to her and he’ll have it in his hands. The shoes Billy ran away in with the traction marked off the bottom, his jeans and a pack of his cloves, his earring and the socks he wore.

It’s bad luck to open a tomb, to rob a grave, but this doesn’t feel like that. It feels more like a good thing, like finding hope in the bottom of a box distinguished from the other terrors of the world. She holds Billy’s urn to her heart and Ty thinks it’s such a small urn for such a tall man.

She comes to him in the end, and he’s not sure why he still feels stuck to the floor, but at least he isn’t sinking. At least there’s no serpent lurking to snap his jaws around them. He doesn’t hold his hand out for it and she doesn’t offer the drawer to him. She just stares down at it, running her finger over the letters of Billy’s name like touching them could tell her a secret. He’s afraid of that, of knowing the secret, and maybe that’s why it feels impossible to touch it.

It reminds Ty of Tandy’s joke, that she burns up in churches like a demon and maybe he’s frozen in a graveyard, maybe that’s something angels or ghosts do. She sits down on the floor, sets the drawer in front of her, and he peers down into it, looking down from on high. He descends and reaches into the box to pull out Billy’s jeans but he finds he can’t remove them, his hand shakes.

“We don’t have to, right now,” Tandy assures him, and he shakes his head. Not to deny her, but just because he needs silence while he prays. His shaking hand reaches into Billy’s jean pocket to find the first one empty. Ty can feel the lighter through the fabric of the pocket so he reaches in again and pulls it out.

It’s one of those fancy metal ones. Billy had saved up for a whole year to buy it from the pawn shop. It was engraved with a wing spread open and feathers decorated— carved into the metal and Ty gives it a flick and finds it still lights.

It makes him wanna cry— a few tears do roll down his cheeks and land on Billy’s jeans— but when he shuts it and the flame goes out the feeling goes dormant. He tucks the lighter into his pocket and then opens up Tandy’s bag.

She’s the one who loads each possession, rolling the clothes smaller and tighter so they fit, into the messenger bag. Ty closes it, snaps the button on it shut, and then stands. He gives her his hand and she gets up. She reaches up and wipes some of the wet tracks of the tears off of his cheeks and he can’t help but turn his face into the comfort of her palm, just to rest there for a moment. He’s so tired.

He sniffs loudly and jars himself out of his own feelings. He brushes her hand away, not unkindly, and says as he takes a few steps to the ladder and climbs it, “We should find your dad’s too.”

“Don’t bother,” Tandy says too quickly and it shocks Ty. He knows it’s different for her and Melissa, but surely some confirmation, surely belongings to have, are better than not having anything at all.

“Tandy,” Ty says, wanting to be gentle and hoping it’s not condescending. “You don’t want to regret-”

There’s another shake, stronger than the first they felt in the tunnel of love, and Ty almost falls backward off of the ladder. He almost goes falling two stories down but he catches himself on the railing of the ladder. The force is enough to throw Tandy back, but other than a wince when she hits the ground, she doesn’t seem to have broken anything. She was barely two feet up off of the ground anyway, not too far for her to fall. The sword drops, makes a loud and long clanking sound as it goes sliding across the floor.

The ladder is not in the best condition, much like the halls and the park rides above them, but this shake of the facility is enough to bend it at some of the rusted parts and break a little. Ty steps on it, gives it a few good kicks but finds that, ultimately, it could give at any second. Tandy will have to climb up quickly to keep from aggravating it any more. Tandy sits up and looks around, as if the source of the shaking is something she could see a root cause of. Ty leans over the railing and calls down to her, “Tandy hurry up. We gotta get above ground before the next shake.”

“There’s no danger,” Tandy says, very loudly, the way she spoke about ghosts at the gate, “we’ll be fine. That shaking doesn’t mean-” 

The door they came in through bursts into the room, splinters as the battering ram that is the titanboa’s head forces his way inside the records room. Tandy screams, falls back and goes scrambling until she hits up against the wall. The snake finds her, turns his head to see the sword on the other side of the room, and then before it strikes in the direction of Tandy’s prone form it smiles.

Ty holds his breath. The thing followed them. Came after them. Has clearly done a lot of head ramming to get itself here all for them. Just the two of them.

It’s so much determination— it can’t be anything less than predatory hunger.

*

Molly has not ridden a dinosaur before— she hasn’t ridden anything before really, not even a motorcycle or a bike. Molly has never even ridden a lawn mower but maybe that works in her favor because she gets the hang of riding Old Lace fairly quickly. Riding all those other things would have tripped Molly up, made her unable to separate bike riding from dinosaur riding. Even though Molly had never done it she’s pretty sure that riding a dinosaur isn’t like riding anything else and she’s probably the first person ever to ride a dinosaur.

Old Lace has Gert’s scent down, and she moves fast enough that the wind gets into Molly’s eyes and she pulls her pink hat down over her face. There’s two eye holes that Staci knit into the hat that Molly peers through. They come up on the van in moments, and with a small squeeze of Molly’s heels on the sides of Old Lace’s haunches, the rap-tor launches herself at the van. Her claws land, on the rear door and it tears away like paper in her grip. Old Lace discards the bent metal and trills in delight.

Gert is being held in the back of the van, her legs and arms bound. When she sees Molly she sits up— not an easy task for her but she’s determined to be upright. “Molly,” Gert shouts at her— they didn’t bind her mouth which surprises Molly. “I was so worried,” Gert says, “are you okay?”

Before she can answer, the van comes to a full halt. It breaks so suddenly that Gert goes tipping forward and, unable to catch herself; she smacks her cheek hard against the floor of the van. Old Lace skids to a stop, kicking up dirt under them, but not colliding with the van. Staci is out first, Molly knows because she hears the door slam, but Dale is the only one she sees stepping out of the driver’s seat. It’s too high up for him so he has to jump down. Molly has never felt so tall before. Sure, being up on what must be around if not bigger than horseback height, is most definitely helping but Dale has a different kind of smallness to him now. He has a shortness of character about him— he isn’t a good person.

Molly turns Old Lace around and backs her up against the back of the van to act as an obstacle between Gert and their parents. Staci comes up on Old Lace’s left side, Dale on their right. They move in synchronicity. Old Lace hisses and gives teeth that scare Staci into taking several steps back. Molly flickers the electricity of the cattle prod close enough to Dale that he yelps and jumps back. Molly detects a hint of smoke curling up from Dale’s mustache.

Staci and Dale come around, their hands raised in defense, and meet up in the middle staring upwards at Molly. She pulls the hat off of her face, they know it’s her, but she wants them to see her, to look at her face. They broke her heart.

She jabs the prod at them, getting another yelp from Dale and an “Oh my” from Staci. 

“Gert,” Molly calls back to her sister, “Can you get out of the ropes on your own?”

“I can do it for her,” Staci offers, a nervous laughing rumbling the letters around in a way that is so clearly lying. Molly shocks the prod at Staci and she shakes her head, saying quickly, “or not.”

“Keep your hands up,” Molly commands them. Crying is in her throat, waiting to come out, trying to push tears and sobs out of her but she can’t cry _now_ , not while facing off with them. But something in her un-clenches, something in her heart when she hears Gert say behind her, “You okay, Molls?”

She wishes she hadn’t asked her that— it always makes Molly cry, always pushes her over. So, tears come and sobs influence her voice, but she doesn’t look away from their parents, and she doesn’t lower her weapon. They can watch her cry then— that can’t stop her.

“You can’t touch us,” Molly says. “Not ever again. We don’t know you.”

Gert has gotten the ropes off of her ankles but not her wrists yet. She comes around the side of Old Lace and reaches her bound hands up and clasps it around Molly’s. She doesn’t say anything but she’s here— Molly knows she’s right there and they aren’t alone.

“Sweetie,” Dale offers, and he has the nerve to be crying too— both of them are and that’s not fair. They don’t have any right to it— not the way she does and not the way Gert does. “We can all leave now. The five of us,” Dale points to Old Lace and she hisses at him like she remembers how he left her. Molly remembers how they left her too. “No more experiments, no more Pierce and all of that, we can move to our own kind of testing.” Molly doesn’t look away from Dale but she knows Gert is crying with her and it’s such an easier thing to grieve together— to have another heart that beats with yours. Someone to hold Molly’s hand.

“Your own agenda, you mean,” Her big sister is crying but her voice is hard— bitter in a way that cuts Staci and Dale— they wince at her every word. “We aren’t going anywhere with you. Didn’t you hear my sister?” Molly’s spine holds her up high and her finger feels easy on the trigger of the prod. “We don’t know you. We don’t get in vans with strangers.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Staci pleads, clasping her hands together and wringing them, “look we have a lot to work out. All of us need to talk but you have to know we love you. We did some questionable things but we _love_ you. Both.”

“We just know that you’re liars,” Gert replies, “and worse.” Molly reaches out and connects the cattle prod with Dale’s shoulder and he goes down with his body shaking. Molly points it at Staci who takes in a deep breath and takes two steps backwards. Molly and Old Lace don’t move— if Staci is planning on running why not just do it? They wouldn’t follow her— they have more important things to do. They need to rescue Chase for one thing, and Ty and Tandy could be in their own kind of danger. Staci takes three more steps back and then starts to fumble around in her pocket until she pulls a little black rectangle out of her pants and holds it aloft pressing the button.

It’s a little hard to hear at first, but Staci’s thumb turns the knob on the side and the volume rises— it’s not much easier to hear. Molly notes after a few notes that it’s the sound of a heartbeat— she knows that one. Which one is that? She strains to listen, she has to hear it— it makes her feel comfortable. It lulls her into sleep. She’s so tired.

Old Lace groans as if in agony and stumbles left to right, shaking her head like a dog drying itself. Despite the jostling, Molly still feels safe, and warm, why not be a little more focused on that? She should focus— 

The crack of the recorder is loud, louder than Molly, Gert, and Old Lace were ready for, but loud enough to snap them out of the oncoming trance. Molly shakes her head and blinks, her mind coming back into reality, and she sees uncle James holding the recorder up, crushed in the grip of his metal arm, and his flesh hand holding Staci by the wrist.

There’s a kind of anger on his face that Molly hasn’t seen before but it feels close to her heart, the way he sneers like Staci disgusts him. He opens his hand and the pieces of the recorder land on the ground with a clatter.

Gert steps forward, Old Lace rumbling with a growl that she’s waiting to let out, and with the cattle prod she touches it to Staci’s side. The shock is enough to make Staci pass out, and James is fast enough to let her wrist go so the shock can’t travel through his arm and to him.

Once Staci collapses Gert turns the cattle prod on James and he puts his hands up.

“Who are you?” Gert asks, her voice shaking when she cries. When Gert is really made she cries ugly, her face puffing up and getting red. James looks at her like he hates to see her crying but he remains still while she decides what to do with the cattle prod. “Do you know?”

James looks from her eyes and to Molly’s. He goes down onto his knees and puts both of his hands behind his head. “I’m not going to hurt you. No matter what happens I’m not going to do that, I swear.”

It breaks Molly’s heart because it sounds like the truth.

*

Pierce looks tired. Not in the way that Bucky had in The Diner, or even the kind of tired that Steve feels after such an eventful twenty-four hours, but tired in the way that ruthlessness pulls at the edges of a man. Pierce wobbles when he stands, is leaning on the wall and his cane to stay upright, and he glares at Steve the way a rabid animal might before striking. It reminds Steve of the old greyhounds, the ones used for racing and how they would pant with their whole bodies and pant with their teeth out ready to bite. Steve looks for foam about Pierce’s mouth but the old man wipes the back of his hand across the area.

Steve keeps his eyes on Pierce, moving his hands over the controls of the pod with very little visual cues. He finds the controls feel familiar to him. That he can work them the way he did the lighthouse. There’s a round glass window on the back, it’s almost entirely the back wall is glass in a bronze bracketed cage. Pierce stands in front of it like he could possibly block Steve’s view of the entire back wall of the ocean. It’s as if Alexander sees himself as a man who is that big, or at least pretending to be to scare Steve into some kind of submission.

They are just going to snarl and glare at each other until one of them gets the upper hand— they both know it and Steve is sure that Alexander has equal conviction it should be him as Steve does the opposite. They need the isotope and Steve watches the blue pass outside behind Alexander Pierce and he notes that the old man’s eyes manage to match the fading glory of the water. A descent from blue into darkness.

“Are you going to ask me why I did it?” Alexander says, sneering at Steve and then turning away from him, turning his back on Steve, and talking to the darkness of the ocean. Steve notes that Alexander is no longer panting, the pressure is increasing around them but Pierce’s chest has steadied.

“That would imply I thought you had a good reason,” Steve replies, eyes looking to the way Alexander’s palm twists on the head of his cane. Steve wonders if it’s still the serpent head on the cane, or if Alexander switched it out for another of his decorative cane tops. He has many, each strong and cold enough to bring blood to Bucky’s face when he strikes him with it.

“It’s better to do something for a reason than for nothing,” Alexander argues.

“Is it?” Steve scoffs. “I think myself and a lot of people would have preferred you’d done nothing.”

Two thousand fathoms marks this as the deepest underwater Steve has ever been. Even his swim earlier tonight only took him a few feet under the surface. They have descended by leagues now and Steve tries to remember a line or two from one of Bucky’s favorite books: Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under The Sea but he’s blanking on it now. That was one of Bucky’s summer reads, he used to re-read it every year or two during the summer when he’d get in a nostalgic mood— when he’d have to spend all his days down at the docks on the boats, so close to the adventure of the sea that he’d read about as a boy but stuck on the surface. In Steve’s mind this paints Bucky like a kind of Little Mermaid figure but in reverse, held and forbidden from one world, trapped doing the hard and grueling work of underpaid dock men. Bucky would come home tired with only a handful of hours to spend with Steve before he left for the night.

“No one died without necessity,” Alexander counters him; it’s dark outside and Steve can see Alexander’s reflection. Steve can see that he means every word, his heart is not heavy to speak of the price he paid in other’s blood, “Not until your blasted screaming. Your foghorn. So much wasted because you couldn’t keep your grief to yourself like everyone else.”

Steve hasn’t read that book in years— not since Bucky’s disappearance, and before that, he can’t pinpoint the last time he picked it up or laid his head in Bucky’s lap to hear him read it aloud. They should read it again, together, at the end of all this. Maybe Steve can read the book out loud to Bucky, be the one to run his fingers through Bucky’s hair to soothe him and give life to the words that have brought him joy ever since he was a child. It could be a connection to something happy, something from before all this torment. All this evil.

From before Alexander Pierce.

“How?” Steve asks, finally, once he feels the pressure of the underwater world outside match up with the inside chamber of their little pod. Alexander rolls his eyes like he’s being very disrespected by being questioned about this and not about what he _wants_ to say.

Alexander turns around, puts his cane on the ground and uses it to turn himself, resting heaving on the device. Steve had always assumed it was for style. Alexander had never had problems walking before and what he was doing now felt like a sudden escalation of pain and difficulty if Alexander had indeed needed the cane to move before.

“You and your wretched heart,” Pierce grumbles, the jowls of his face trembling like they are impatient to snap at Steve’s hand. “There’s nothing like a good scream, is there? Screams can be very unique, personal, like a heartbeat. Screams and hearts carry pain and pain is quite useful.”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s a killer. He’s not sure he could let Pierce die. But he has no incentive to let him live and Pierce is not acting like a man who fears his life from Steve Rogers. Steve would know such a look. Pierce must feel more powerful than his situation warranted. But those sea blue eyes change color with the ocean outside and each league they descend is a new depth that Steve can’t swim out of.

“The sounds set a base. They clear out space in the room so it can be molded. Screams take a long time and it can be very painful. But that’s why it’s so permanent, you see? Trauma like that lasts, holds things like a sticky trap. We’d gotten quite far with James and Rebecca,” Pierce smiles the way a proud father might and it makes Steve’s stomach turn. “But then James was always on about you. Even in the trance state, you would show up, pop in with your heart beat and he would go mad. He’d sob and destroy things, try to escape, try to kidnap the children.”

He assumes Alexander wouldn’t fare well outside of this pod either, otherwise he would be fighting Steve for control of the pod, or smashing the window open to cause a diversion to escape and swim up. But no, they are in the deep and the dark together now. Steve has always said he’d go through hell and back with Bucky Barnes and few others. But crushing darkness and hell seem more like Alexander’s playing field and Steve feels like Pierce has the upper hand.

“He would say that you were alone, painfully alone, and he needed to get to you. We had plenty of screams to contain him, Rebecca’s and the children’s. But we didn’t have yours. I don’t know how he heard it.”

“It was a beacon,” Steve answers.

Alexander seems less than pleased himself to be making this descent again so soon and with Rogers on a path to undo the hiding that Alexander has just done. He’s not a man to give up— Steve can read it in the way his hands tighten over the head of his snake cane. He has plans to get the upper hand on Steve. Steve isn't sure what he’s planning to do after that, the options seem pretty limited to what Pierce can do, what he wants.

But Steve doesn't know what he wants. Doesn’t know Pierce’s goal or the reason he put his ear to Bucky’s heart all those years ago and chose the beat as one he could steal.

“It was stronger than everything else we had to hold him,” Pierce scoffs, without humor and then adds, “His mind, that is, not his body. That was easily held back. But nothing could quiet him from sending the command to Rebecca.” The memory fills him with such distaste that Alexander stops for a moment as if swallowing back bile. “She could not be held in the lower levels anymore. Broke and flooded the lab getting out to you. And then the damn foghorn.”

“Broke all the control we had. Loud enough it shook everything and let all the animals loose. We were barely able to get out with who we had. I had assumed the worst of Fenoff and Lykos but it seems they have survived. Adapted.” Alexander leans back against the glass of the window and Steve sees a shark pass over the window and above them. The pod comes to a halt.

“The truth is, Captain Rogers, we are at war. Always. And the longer we hold back, the longer we fail to utilize science to win this war, the more casualties we will have in the end,” Pierce speaks like he’s practiced this, not so much that he’s given it before but maybe, over some time, he’s felt the tide changing direction and so he’s practiced his justification. Pierce has prepared his case for the tribunal— he can talk his way out of feathers never tipping the scale of his heavy heart. Steve pictures Pierce’s heart in his chest coated in calcium and hardened but still beating like alabaster clicking against the bone of his ribs, the tapping noise enough to drive a man into madness.

“Do you think I’ll vouch for you?” Steve asks. “There’s no war that costs what you’ve paid.” Steve knows he can’t make Alexander admit the truth but something about the statement jabs at Pierce, possibly at his ego, the way the man hates to be in a position so close to death that he might as well bare his soul.

“I had the tools to make weapons, unforeseen and powerful weapons. And it cost me lives and bodies. There’s been money and pain poured into every inch of this facility.”

“But not yours,” Steve takes the flare gun out from under the safety kit and aims it at Pierce, “Never your own pain.” 

Pierce takes one step to the left and Steve doesn’t bother to follow him with the gun until Pierce pushes his luck to two more steps and Steve refocuses on him. Alexander puts his hands up, takes all three of his steps back, and leans himself against the glass. It looks like midnight outside— like no light has ever found this place and now it never can. It’s been dark so long, it wouldn’t know what to do with light if it saw any. Steve figures the pod has lights, but he isn’t sure he wants to turn them on— he doesn’t want to know what creatures down here, born for a world surrounded by constantly enclosing darkness. He wouldn’t want to put eyes on such creatures— he’s seen Bex and he’s seen enough of this. This underwater world is not theirs to know and interfere with— just like the creature suffering under the memories of Bex should not have been interfered with. If a creature can not come out of time and adapt, then it belongs in the ice.

“It’s not all been unwilling,” Alexander reasons, looking into the dark like he craves to put it under a microscope. “Lykos has got himself the body he’s always wanted. He happily still fulfills his end of the job.” Steve’s hand doesn’t even feel tired holding the gun up and steady for so long. Bucky was always the better shot. “Now, Johann has been posing problems,” Alexander speaks as if he’s giving something up, “then again, until the lights came back on, I thought he was dead. He downloaded himself, of course, the paranoid narcissist. Believing we couldn’t continue his work without him so he made a back up plan to continue his progress.” Alexander turns and looks Steve up and down curiously, “But you’ve gotten this all handled now, haven’t you? You’re just going to let James kill his sister and then ride off into the sunset together? You haven’t thought of the consequences. How it will weigh on his poor heart.”

“We’ve all got heavy hearts,” Steve spits back at him, his trigger finger more temptation now than it’s ever been before, “He’ll carry mine and I’ll carry his. It’s easier with two people.” There’s something triumphant in that that makes Steve smile and Alexander frown. He wouldn’t know what it is to carry pain with someone else— he only knows to shove it off onto other people. To create it and try to harness it, never taking any of the weight for himself. Alexander Pierce is a man so filled with sin his heart is iron and stone, strong enough to have sunk them to the ocean floor. The only place safe and deep enough to hide a powerful bullet like the isotope.

Steve hates him, hates what he’s saying, but he knows it’s true. Alexander has thrown enough bitter words at Steve, even more looks of triumph in the years since Bucky disappeared. Alexander was smiling at Steve because he knew he had his Bucky. Steve was dying of loneliness and Whinnie was breaking her back with moving on and Alexander Pierce ate his two eggs and toast special every day at The Diner, he tipped in dirty coins, and he struck venom like a snake who gets strength from a kill. All that time and Alexander knew where Bucky and Becca were, Billy Johnson and Nathan Bowen, Alexander knew the tragic end to every missing person in all of McDunn, and it gave him a reason to smile every day.

Steve won’t let Pierce wield Becca as a weapon anymore than he has already. He shakes his head.

“She didn’t deserve you,” He says, “and that poor thing on the cliff, trying to climb the castle and burn the tower down, it doesn’t deserve you either.” Steve fixes him with a glare and Pierce takes in a sharp inhale of breath as if chilled by it, “You can’t use her against me anymore. The isotope is what’s best.” It’s going to hurt Bucky so much to pull the trigger. But Steve will load the gun and he’ll keep Bucky steady so it feels like he has the weight of the trigger on his finger too. He can't let Alexander Pierce talk him out of doing the right thing. The only way out is through. “You’re lucky we don’t tie you up and leave you to them all as an offering. I’m sure they could tear the revenge right out of you. And those aren’t even the ones you forced human minds on— human minds understand torment in a way those beasts can’t. I bet they would use that torment on you.” Whinnie cried into his shoulder while that cat purred and circled them and Alexander Pierce was passing them off from one mad scientist to the other, making them experiments, weapons fashioned and refashioned, twisted metal put under too much heat and molded into something unnatural. Adina Johnson stayed inside her bedroom for two weeks after her boy disappeared and Alexander pretended like she didn’t exist. As if she were mourning a bug he’d stepped on, or a baby bird, egg cracked on the ground and the mercy she was asking for was a trivial matter. If there were ever a man made of pure evil it would be Alexander. He was bragging, even now, about how he’d won out over all these years. That it was still a win for him because he wasn’t dead and they still had dinosaurs roaming within the confines of the amusement park. 

Steve aims at the space where Alexander’s heart should be, and caresses the trigger.

His heart beats heavy in his chest and Steve feels the weight of the trigger slow it. The pressure is rising, and Steve is as close to hell as he’s ever been.

*

Semi dry and on as solid ground as they can hope for, Kate and Chase stop and take in several breaths. “Is he still alive?” Chase asks, looking into the liquid black and letting his mind play tricks with the shadows on him.

“I don’t know,” Kate says, honestly, “I’m not sure what it would take to kill,” she pauses and then finishes, solemnly, “whatever he is.”

“He had my dad’s voice on the recording. I forgot what he,” Chase says and something about it changes the fear in him, the way he’s peering into the water— like maybe there’s something worse than Lykos that will rise up and snatch the boy in its jaws. “That’s the last thing he said to me,” Chase gulps and the action so clearly pains him that Kate doesn’t try and rush him as he thinks through his father. “Just you wait until I get home,” Chase repeats and the word burns him the way prayer would a vampire but he keeps talking, “I was gonna get it the worst I ever had. I knew it— I _know_ it. But he never came home.”

Kate looks behind them, finds nets and tridents, fishing gear and diving gear, but most importantly, she finds a boat tied to a dock. Where there is a boat and a dock, there is an exit into the open sea. She wouldn’t do that dive again for a cool million dollars but she is satisfied in the fact that her instinct to move towards water was right.

She looks back at Chase, still staring into the deep dark waiting for the monster to come out from under the bed. She touches him on the shoulder, he jumps a little, flinches, but then settles when he refocuses on her. “He made a promise and he never came home and I still don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Nobody does,” Kate assures him and then she stands up, “and you don’t have to know it all or feel it all right now. You can just focus on staying alive.” She offers her hand and he takes it, standing up and letting more water drip everywhere. Some of it slips back into the soft lull of the water they’ve climbed out of. “You seem like you’re really good at surviving. I’d put money on you, you're tough.”

Chase smiles like this is the most sincere compliment he’s heard in a long time. He nods, “Yeah you too. You seem pretty kick ass.”

“That’s our team dynamic from here on out, got it?” Kate asks and Chase shakes his head— not because he disagrees but because he doesn’t quite understand so Kate offers: “You focus on survival and I’ll focus on ass kicking. Deal?”

“What if I fuck it up?” Chase asks.

Kate shrugs and replies, sincerely, “Then we die. Whatever. I believe in reincarnation anyway. You’ll get us next time.”

Chase smiles like he finds that funnier because it’s dark and cold and there’s nothing else to laugh. He smiles and hopes it encourages her to smile back. It’s less cold in the dark with a good laugh to keep you company. Kate is glad she’s not completely alone in this, if for no other reason than she’s going to need help telling every grueling detail to America. Eye witness accounts will be one of the only things they have now, with two drenched phones between them and Kate’s sound equipment long lost in some dark corridor when they were running.

“We’ve gotta get out of here next. Let’s check those boats,” She stands up and takes several wet steps towards the boats while she tries to decide if her shoes are worth it to keep on or if it’s better to go barefoot from here on out. She has pretty sturdy feet— no one can accuse her of being soft footed— but all it would take would be a piece of glass to ruin her much needed footwork at least to get them out of this cave if not fully away from the danger. She decides by the time she comes up to the boats to keep her shoes on. This proves to be a good choice when she observes how torn apart and wrecked all these boats are. There’s three of them, with some change as Kate counts a couple of extra steering wheels and one microwave that Kate can’t imagine how it got there. Not a one of them will run though, she can tell just from the parts that are gutted and stripped, flayed out like bodies, all their secrets on display. Chase walks into the wreckage with all the confident curiosity young boys have— nothing to hold them back, they must dive right into questions, explorations, adventures. Girls must learn dignity and silence when it comes to such things.

Kate steps up onto the starboard side of the largest boat and finds herself standing behind the wheel and giving it a bored spin. She feels the rudder under her feet, somewhere in the water, turning to the port and then back to the starboard when she goes the other way. She steps away from it and onto the back where a harpoon gun sits, the javelin on the ground, bent in more than one place at the head. It will fly wrong unless the shape is properly accounted for.

Chase holds up a dirty but dry bag in the air and hollers in excitement. It’s one of those noises like gorillas make when posturing that Kate has found common in the lexicon of dudes who are super into sports. A hard and rumbling “woo woo woo” or some such— there are many different calls of this type but the one Chase uses comes off as more of a howl. Kate turns the harpoon gun, putting Chase and his bag in the center of the scope and then looks down to make herself familiar with the controls. She can fire any kind of projectile from this model that she wants if she accounts for the change in weight and shape. It’s more like a slingshot than a gun design which opens up options after the bent and rather rusty harpoon at her feet.

Chase drops the bag on the dock, and it clanks and flies open, nothing spills out, but Chase begins to rummage through the bag desperately seeking to know each tool at his disposal and in reach. 

“Kid, what are you doing?” Kate calls over to him, pointing the gun all the way up into the air, as far back as it will go and aiming it in the sky by feel rather than view through the scope. She could shoot from this angle, if something were flying above them. “This one,” she calls to him and he turns away from his tools, both hands fisting a drill and pliers, and looks at her.

“What?” He calls after her.

She smacks her hands on the harpoon gun and, smiling with a dark kind of delight, clarifies, “Fix this one up. We’ll need this to get out of here.”

Chase doesn’t argue which is a very nice thing to have in a doomsday buddy. He simply nods, gathers his tools up, and carries them over to Kate’s boat and looks it over. He starts muttering to himself, pulling buttons and levers, opening little cabinets and rummaging around in there. Hidden cabinets and storage areas are opened up before Kate as Chase pulls out the things he needs and shoves his hands into the engine of the boat, that bold curiosity taking over again and working in Kate’s favor. She hops off the boat and goes to search the other for projectiles. There are, unsurprisingly, a lot of long and sharp objects that can be loaded into a big slingshot. Kate had experimented with every kind of throwing and firing. She hadn’t liked sniping but she had liked bow hunting and archery a lot. One night their friend group got rowdy enough to ask Kate to load and fire any object they could find from beer cans to beer bottles, and wine bottles to vodka bottles— okay so really only one kind of object. They had been drinking _a lot_ that night. But she remembers doing forks, and knives, other utensils that Teddy grabbed from the kitchen— Kate has still never seen that ladle again. She needs to remember to pick a new one up, she keeps forgetting every time until she goes to make pancakes.

One of the boats has a quaint little kitchen, functioning as something of a house boat, small bed in the back and a tiny latrine with no shower behind fake wooden panels. The kitchen has all the basic utensils plus an apron with pockets so Kate makes use of them by shoving as many potential projectiles as she can find and fit into the apron. The next boat has a ton of bottled beer hidden under the seats where normally life jackets would be stored. There are, Kate notes with a kind of disgust, no life jackets to be found so evidently this lab has a “fuck you” safety strategy right down to the most micro level. She needs to make a couple of trips with two crates stacked on each other but she does have over thirty six bottles of beer to shoot with and, if she’s being honest, it’s the best shape to fire and the right weight if it’s full. She sets them next to the harpoon gun, and on her second trip back with the last of the beer, she catches the name of the boat painted on the side but covered in barnacles blocking some of the letters. Kate kneels down, takes a fork out of her apron and starts to scrape the barnacles off until the full name is revealed.

_“Styx and Stones”_

Kate likes it. It’s not a bad name but it is unusual for a boat as they’re normally girl names. Or maybe just all of her dad’s boats had girls' names. Maybe that was something elitist boaters did and not so much the common man. Or the common scientist. Or the common whoever it is that packed four cases of beer onto their work motor boat. 

Kate searches a little more and finds two heavy duty flashlights and a couple of oxygen tanks that are empty. She checks for batteries but gives up after only a few minutes of searching. She walks up behind Chase, taps her foot against his hip to get his attention and he jumps, throwing his tool in the air and failing to catch it as it comes back down. Kate smirks and offers him one of the flash lights, “One for each of us. We’re in charge of our own, deal?”

He takes the flash light from her, nodding vehemently and turning it on, “Thanks. Deal, obviously.” He shines it onto the engine of the boat and she peers down and tries to guess at what he’s doing. Looks like he has enough parts to work with— his fingers are laced with oil. Kate searches around the deck and finds a couple of beach towels that Chase had pulled out from storage and tossed away. Kate grabs one and tosses it over Chase’s shoulder. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she says, and then when he doesn’t answer she taps her foot on his hip again and says, because she’s asking him to make a promise, “I mean it. Don’t hurt yourself.” He relaxes. She can see the tension pass out of his easing shoulders and jaw with his exhale. “Obviously Lykos isn’t swimming up after us so I think we have plenty of time to get out of here.”

Chase nods and without the pressure of a clock or a hovering authority figure he starts to work with that excited curiosity again— his body flows after it relaxes moving fast and delicately. He will work himself right done to his bones, a ferryman rowing them by hand if he must to cross them over into sanctuary.

“Let me know when you’re done and I’ll show you how I’m gonna kick ass,” Kate promises jutting her thumb out over her shoulder and behind her towards the harpoon. “I went full Ahab back there, it’s gonna be sick.”

“No one says ‘sick’ anymore,” Chase calls back to her, a correction and after she so kindly offered to show him her beer bottle based scheme of destruction. Peter would have been much more supportive of this.

“I’m bringing it back,” Kate replies before walking herself to her projectile and looking for the perfect place to set the flash light. She could tie it to the scope for a spotlight effect but that could do more harm than good if it throws the weight off of her hands on the gun. Weight is very important when shooting. Patience too which is why Kate has always said, to herself and never out loud because it’s a totally dorky thing to say, “weight and wait are important”. 

Chase jumps up and wipes his hands off on the towel Kate gave him before he runs to the control panel, and turns the keys— all the boats are in such disarray that the keys have been left in all of them. Their owners feel secure that they can’t be stolen. The engine roars to life and Chase lets out another one of those primal yells of triumph and punches the air. Kate, who is a kind and supportive mentor, gives Chase his due round of applause.

“Okay. See if you can drive us out?” Kate asks, turning around and seeing the stern has a back light that at least gives them a few feet of light for backing up into. The lights are red and it makes a bloody water reflect in the dark, black shadows moving in hellfire, dancing red on the ceiling of a cave and in the water down below. Souls reaching and pulling them backwards as Chase shifts the gears into reverse and pulls out of the dock. Kate gives her own whoop of triumph at Chase successfully not smashing them into the dock while backing out. He avoids the sides of the cave too.

There’s devils down below the waves, Kate thinks and then wishes she hadn’t. She goes starboard and peers over the side of the boat into the water because she can’t shake the feeling of danger. She looks down into the red waves and sees the red light playing tricks— but she doesn’t see Lykos lurking there either, waiting for a chance to strike.

She breathes easier having looked— but if she’d only waited a couple more minutes she wouldn’t have needed to look at all. There would have been confirmation that the pterodactyl wasn’t under water when they heard the rumbling of the dark on the other end of the dock. They could have followed it into some unknown part of the building but Kate felt trusting of the water, safer on that path than into a dark unknown.

It’s cawing, just like in the lab, with the sound echoing all around them, down the long corridor and jumping off of itself, screams that beget more screams until it feels like the darkness is a murder of crows fluttering around them— a great moving blackness pasted over a red dawn.

Lykos flies out of the darkness, his eyes glowing orange, and Chase has good enough instinct to put the pedal to the metal and back them out like a bat out of hell. Kate rushes back to the harpoon and checks that all her makeshift arrows are within grasp before she starts to load them into the slingshot. She turns and aims at the glowing slits that fly out of the dark towards them— he gets close enough that Kate spies his wing, the part where she tore it with her knife is all patched up, blood drying on bandages. She aims and fires getting one good Blue Moon October Harvest in his chest. Chase gives her a holler of triumph and she returns it out of respect for his culture— she is one of his bros now. Kate loads another bottle into the gun and takes aim. Lykos is fast, but he’s hindered by his bandaged wing and getting hit all over with bottles of beer— plus Chase is pretty steady on the steering wheel, turning and zig-zagging them as need be. He really must have taken sailing lessons as a kid. He’s having some kind of fun, that’s for sure— Kate feels a little guilty that she is too. Lykos starts to weave where he can, the close and bottle neck of the tunnel expanding and contracting and yet never big enough for him to take advantage. His body was meant for big open skies but he attacked them from an enclosed dark tunnel. She thinks about Black-fish again— how the tanks are so small compared to the ocean. She’s running out of beer bottles but she can’t imagine Lykos can take much more of this. He’s pushing the body and Kate isn’t sure if that’s the human mind, the determination to push at a body that doesn’t belong to him by rights or is it the true mind of the animal inside him, muscle memory responding to the chase and the singular primal focus of prey. Possibly it’s both, she thinks, as she fires the fifth to last bottle aimed at his head. He changes actions and dives, quick and unexpected, not only dodging the Blue Moon November Harvest but reaching his talons out for Chase. Lykos glides low and reaches his claws out to snatch Chase but Kate is quick to load a fork from her apron and cut Lykos bloody across the nose to stop him. Kate remembers the feel of those claws, how powerless and weightless one feels being dragged back to a nest. She can tell the kid knows it as well as she does— he is properly afraid of those claws.

The cut on the nose throws Lykos off, but he lands on the deck and does a barrel roll. Chase makes a valiant effort to tip Lykos into the water by grabbing the steering wheel and spinning them up so fast they almost go belly up. Lykos spins on the deck and goes overboard, but his claws catch him on the edge, and his arms pull him up onto the deck.

He takes an offensive position, holding his arms and wings up, his feet reaching him to his full height, spreading his wings wide and looking as big as possible. She doesn’t take the time to see Chase’s reaction, if he recognizes the bluff of Lykos’s body language, because what the idiot has done is made himself the biggest target Kate could have asked for. She loads the fourth to last bottle into the slingshot, takes aim so it can land right on Lykos’s back, the back of his neck but high enough on his skull to hit just right. Lykos is on his last legs, she can see it from the cuts all over him and the beer bubbling in the wounds.

The ironic thing is she closes her eyes and then fires— like she knows it will hit, she’s so confident that she can’t watch it happen.

She thinks about the bent fins of the orcas— how they curl like the rusted javelin next to her that she wouldn’t dare load.

She knows it hits by the sound of glass breaking and the full body thud onto the deck. Kate opens her eyes and sees Lykos crumbled up on the floor and she can just barely see him breathing. He’s bleeding on the deck. His chest is moving, just barely, up and down— until it isn’t.

It makes Kate feel sick for all kinds of reasons. Because of how the wounds still bleed, like the heart doesn’t know to stop yet. No one has announced the knock of death on the door. Kate looks away, finds some tarp that was laid over the engine and lays it out over the body. Chase swallows, and closes his eyes in something like respect. They give it a moment of silence before they continue down the tunnel. Neither of them look at the body for a while— they don’t want to see the moment when the blood stops pumping.

*

Sarah never mops her kitchen floor. She says she does but Sam doesn’t think that kool aid stain under the table sticking to his foot is new. He’s pretty sure he steps in it every time he’s over because he always sits at the same side of the dinning table every time he’s over.

Sarah is making hot cider because it’s fall. She’s recently gotten a membership card to some craft store so she is saving money on her constant home decorating hobbies. It’s nice to see his sister so happy.

It smells warm. Like cinnamon and apples and he swears he can taste it dry in his throat. She’s humming something. It’s Troubled Man Soundtrack. He hums along a little and then notes a long piercing sound underneath everything else he hears. It’s like the sound of playing a wine glass or of steam whistling in the kettle but there’s nothing like that here. It starts to grow, Sam tries to listen to it, focus in on that noise because it’s wrong and loud and he can’t focus—

He’s on the floor of a tiled room, crouched and holding his hands over his ears. He blinks and finds out that his eyes have been open, he hadn’t been dreaming. But he’s not in Sarah’s kitchen and that noise is all around him; worse, it is inside of him like a swarm of locust come to pick him clean.

“Focus on Sarah,” Fenoff says, calm and heavily accented from the speakers above him. “What does the cider taste like?”

It’s too sweet. She always makes it too sweet, but he drinks it anyway because she goes through so much trouble to make it, always from scratch boiling the apples in and everything.

“So what have you been up to Sammy?” She asks, setting his mug of cider in front of him. She gave him the Garfield mug, the one shaped like his head while she got the one with cute owls all over it. The ceramic of the mug tastes familiar, this mug has been in their lives for years. It was in their mother’s house and he has drunk from it many times. He knows the feel and taste of the ceramic on his tongue, knows that he’s about to take a sip too quickly, it’ll burn his tongue and he’ll hiss and accidentally knock his teeth against the mug.

It’s going to hurt. It did hurt. He remembers that it happened like that and it hurt.

Sam blinks. He heard glass smashing. That happened.

Clint is there, hundreds of him have entered the path of the maze and he’s standing, reflected and worried, banging on the windows and calling to Sam.

Just like he did earlier on the lighthouse door with Kate. Why is Clint always trying to win in a fight against buildings?

Sam laughs. That’s funny; but only because it’s Clint and he likes that about him. 

Focus.

“Who is Clint?” She asks. He nods, the cider in his mug suddenly much lower than it was before. It had been practically spilling too hot into his mouth, and now, it was barely three sips left at the bottom of Garfield’s head. When he touches the mug it feels chilled in his hand like the liquid has completely cooled.

“Who is Clint?” She asks again and he blinks at her. She said it the same way twice, exactly right as he remembers it.

“He’s my co-host,” Sam replies. He’s just gotten the confirmation e-mail and employee packet for his new job at Trish Talk dot com. Sarah is thrilled for him. She screamed with joy and throw her arms around him. She looks less happy now.

“I thought you said you would be the lead on this show?”

“Web series,” Sam clarifies and feels his stomach drop into a pit because here’s where his sister finds out he’s not doing “real journalism”. “And I am the lead. It’s just that this guy is also the lead. We’re co-leads. We’ll work off of each other mostly. It’s for chemistry.”

“You’ve met him then?”

“We did a screen test,” Sam explains, “that was a big part of the last round of interviews. They picked the candidates that had the best chemistry together.”

“So what created all this chemistry with this guy?”

Sam hears the sound of glass breaking and he jumps up from the table and looks around for the source.

He’s not in the fetal position. He’s on all fours but he can get up. He can stand and move his body and try and walk through the hall of glass, each one with another Sam Wilson trapped and screaming inside of it. Except that he’s not screaming. He doesn't think he is.

He heard glass break. Why was that?

“The mug,” Sarah explains, and he’s sitting down, but the Garfield mug is on the tile floor next to him in pieces. Sarah starts to sweep it up. None of that is right. The mug isn’t broken. He didn’t drop it then. He didn’t break anything in Sarah’s house because if he had she would have made him sweep it up. There would have been an entire teasing session devoted entirely to Sam having “viciously destroyed” that “priceless family heirloom”. But none of that happened. He didn’t break the mug.

Sam likes Phantom of the Opera.

Any incarnation, _literally any one_ of that story Sam loves it. He loves the book, of course, he loves the musical _and_ the Joel Schmaucer flicks. Sam has seen exactly one episode of Bay-watch his entire life and it was the Phantom of the Opera one.

Clint showed Sam Phantom of the Mall and thrilled when Sam enjoyed it. Clint paused to get them snacks, and Sam spent the entire time following Clint around the kitchen, staying in front of him and sometimes even walking backwards, just so he could talk about all the homages the film had made so far. Sam had called it that: “a film” as if implying some kind of quality or legitimacy, and it made Clint laugh so hard, he had to call it out.

“You can’t go wrong,” Sam had said, in his defense, “it’s a great story. It has everything. Truth, inner beauty, journalism, disappearances, murder, a horse,” Sam had, at that point, started to count them out on his fingers, not letting only having ten stop his many reasons to love the story of Phantom of the Opera with such willing devotion.

“A mirror maze,” Sam had said, as his final point— or the last one he could make before Clint pressed play and turned away from him. 

Mirrors. He’s blinked himself back to the computer room again, and he sees himself reflected and sometimes warped all over and through the world. It’s like there’s an abyss folding in on itself, and it’s all shining reflections of Sam crouched on the floor.

That kettle whistling. Where is Clint?”

Clint walks away from the glass, from the wall he can see through but can’t find the path through. That whistling noise is keeping Sam from getting up, from acting. He needs to stand. He has to get out of here. That noise is so hard to-

Clint takes his shirt off. Clint wraps his shirt around his knuckles. Clint has pretty knuckles. Sam likes his hands— always has. They bear the callouses of hard work and the deft grace of a man who knows how to use his fingers.

Clint has his shirt off, wrapped around his perfect knuckles, and he punches in the glass of the emergency fire axe case.

“You can’t do that,” Fenoff says, there’s no fear in his voice, he sounds as calm as before, as if they had not recorded him being afraid, only calm and lulling. “Please stop. Listen to me. Focus. Focus.” It’s starting to sound horrid to Sam, like the skipping of a CD, the one word insisted on over and over again in that cold and false comforting tone.

*

Clint’s done demolition work before— just small stuff but he had to take a sledgehammer to a wall more than a few times. Doing this feels surprisingly easy— at least Clint takes to it well. He leaves the camera next to the entrance so it doesn’t hinder his mission.

Clint marches back into the octagon, swings as hard as he can at the first glass wall in his way and it shatters like a waterfall, each shard flowing down and gathering in a pool at the bottom. That was easy and he’s not sure if the evil computer can see him or what, but Clint gives it a big grin just to show that he’s about to have a lot of fun.

Clint read the book. Sam had really only mentioned it in passing their first day together and then at great length a week later when Clint had a small party at his building and invited the whole Rare Birds crew. Kate brought America. Parker had to run out and leave at the last minute, as usual. That kid had always had an emergency. Had always run off.

He’s not in Sarah’s kitchen anymore. It’s Clint’s party and everyone has left except Sam. Sam’s helping him clean up, holding the trash bag open and following Clint around the place while he picks up trash and throws it in. Sam is talking about Phantom of the Opera. About how much he loves it. About how he made a goal in high school to watch every interpretation of it that he could, and he had, as a result, seen every kind of media reinvention of it.

“You like drama,” Clint teases him, and Sam starts talking before he remembers Clint has to look at him before he talks.

“I like mystery and suspense. It’s got both plus drama never hurt anyone.”

“Well just the many people in the theater that the phantom killed,” Clint counters and Sam thinks this conversation would go over better if Sam was the one picking up the trash and Clint held the bag. That way Clint could focus on Sam’s lips and there’d be fewer pauses in conversation. So Sam hands the bag to Clint without explanation and then kneels down to pick up five beer bottles, two of which still have over half the bottle left.

“I love a dramatic horror movie,” Clint said, proceeding to talk about different grind house horror versions of Phantom of the Opera and Sam felt a flutter in his heart as Clint lit up talking about it.

Sam watches and Clint smashes through each mirror. Sam watches versions of himself and Clint collide and crumble in shards on the ground.

Focus. Glitter on Sarah’s knuckles. Stop thinking of Clint. Focus on Sarah’s—

Clint read the book on their first long trip together. They were headed to the island of creepy dolls and had a long stint of boat rides and driving to go through. Clint has the impressive ability to read while in motion and not get car sick. Sam likes it when he gets to drive them places together because he can put the audio version of a book on and Clint can read through a dog eared paperback. It’s not like they have a book club or anything, it’s just that Clint is always interested in what Sam is reading, or watching, or what he likes.

It’s not Sarah’s kitchen. It’s not happening right now. It happened before. After he got the job and he was trying to find the right way to describe Clint to Sarah. Because Clint was such a force of personality he almost couldn’t be put into words. Sam was somewhat flattered to hear that, out of everyone who showed up for that round of interviews, Sam was the one who had the most chemistry with Clint.

And he didn’t break the mug. Sarah didn’t clean it up. It’s sitting in front of him, whole and complete and three quarters full of sippable warmth level of cider.

“So what is it about this guy that you have so much chemistry?” She asks.

“How are you doing that?” Sam asks. “Going back and forth.”

“It’s harder without a record. One has to make a guess.” That’s a voice from all around him, not like a voice from beyond speaking but a grocery clerk announcing on an intercom that a woman needs to come pick up her son at the front desk.

“You have so much chemistry?”

“He’s funny,” Sam says, feeling pulled into Sarah’s kitchen again. He focuses on her hands, the knuckles have some glitter stuck to them. He focuses on the glitter, the way it shimmers like a shard of glass.

He remembers when they were in middle school and the fad for girls was glitter in every ounce of make up from lipstick to gloss to nail polish and everything in between. She had bubble gum pink and black cherry purple. Their mother wouldn’t let her wear too much on her face because glitter, their mother said, was just tiny sands of glass and if it got into Sarah’s eye it could blind her for life.

Sam can’t remember if that’s true or if it’s just one of those things mothers hear about so they can worry more.

Sarah has glitter on her knuckles and he tries to focus on-

“Clint,” he says, and it feels hard to wrestle it out of himself.

“He’s like Phantom of the Opera,” Sam explained. And truer to Clint’s brand would be to say he was more like “Phantom of the Mall” but Sam wasn’t trying to explain Clint’s brand. He was trying to explain Clint. Who was tall enough to pick Sam up and carry him bridal style and, in fact, offered to if Sam twisted an ankle in the field or something.

“The play or the Schumacher movie?” Sarah asked, smiling to see him finally answering.

“The book,” Sam replies, trying not to sound too smug about having read the book but he was always smug about reading the book versions of things.

“That’s your favorite version,” Sarah points out, and she has an implication there but instead of saying it, she’s just smiling into her mug and giving him an amused side eye while he goes on.

“It’s a good story, it has so much going for it,” Sam lays out, “it’s a mystery done in the style of an epistolary and builds suspense by the natural combination of those two genres. It has unique dynamics, twists and turns, journalism, and a villain’s lair full of traps and perils to avoid. It’s a good story. The core of it is malleable and can fit anywhere. It’s an adaptable story because it’s a good one. Because it’s risky and it’s funny.”

Glass breaks. The sound takes a lot longer and happens in shifts, like the glass is breaking one inch at a time and Sam sees why when he looks up again and finds Clint, shirtless, hacking away at the glass walls that stand in his way. The fastest way out is through and Clint is coming for Sam and he’ll break down every wall if he has to.

A maze is surprisingly easy to solve if you have an axe and all the walls are, stupidly, glass. Clint swings left then right so he can be sure to get exercised evenly throughout this physical activity. He might as well make this part of his arm routine. Just for show, he tries to do a spin but the space in between the mirrors is not good for it.

They watched a few more seconds of the movie before Sam, a guest in Clint’s home and a very new friend, reached over the couch to grab the remote and pause the movie. Clint was awestruck at Sam’s candor— in Phantom of the Opera times, there would have been a duel upon the morrow between them.

Clint reached for the remote exactly once, and when Sam pulled it away, he raised an eyebrow expectantly at his guest.

“The mirror maze is important to talk about,” Sam insisted. Clint crossed his arms and nodded for Sam to continue as his point was so important he risked total social shame by grabbing the remote from the host’s lap when he’s an invited guest. “It’s cool. It’s kind of the coolest thing that happens because it’s so dramatic. Eric is a magician, you see, so there’s something of an illusion happening already in his lair.”

Clint stopped him there, made Sam back up and explain how this Phantom got all this room to build a fancy lair. That discussion took a very long time as Clint refused to believe a man could build an opera house with that many hidden chambers, with the materials used at the time— and then Clint was drawing blueprints while Sam gave him notes over his shoulder.

They finished the movie a week later, when Sam came over with a sandwich from the deli he likes, and as they watched the plot unfold on the screen, Clint liked how dramatic and goofy Sam got. How that was Sam cutting loose— not acting the way one does around a co-worker but a friend. Clint had a lot of fun— so much that he didn’t even care that they’d been halfway through the movie. Clint still has those blueprints somewhere, probably he’d find them easily if he just searched around a little, he remembers leaving them on top of the filing cabinet so probably they’re underneath whatever other papers have found their way up there.

Phantom of the Opera was such a thing with Sam. Clint couldn’t help the flip in his stomach when Sam said, in a way that was both a compliment and a challenge, “I bet you could build it. You’re good at building. I’ll bet you're as good as Eric.”

Focus.

Clint smashes the last mirror that separates them, and Sam beams, it’s a smile so big it hurts his face, and he can feel it pushing up against his ears, but it’s well deserved because Clint is just the best.

Clint’s chest hair is damp with sweat, his large pecks are rising and falling with heavy breathing from his axe swinging. His beard is dark and there’s a soft sheen of sweat all over him and he looks just a little bit dirty with grime. Sam could pass out; he feels so lightheaded.

They talked about how Eric is an architect in the book, how he built the opera house, how he gathered skills from working in the circus. Clint confessed to Sam then that that was Clint’s previous career path: working for Cirque De Sole. That, coupled with Clint also being a renovation enthusiast and a damn good builder at that, Clint had all the skills and finesse of Eric, but none of the homicidal rage.

That was when Sam had laughed at the idea of himself as Christine and Clint as the Phantom for Halloween. They could really shake up the office costume party if they worked together. They did. Because they do work well together. They’re a team and Sam wouldn’t want to be on a team with anyone else.

Clint gives the axe a twirl before he grips it in both hands and slices it through the screen. The moving dots and lines, before wires spark, twist into what must be a scream as Clint pulls back on the axe and hacks it again. He’ll have to remember to make a “computer hacking” joke later when they aren’t near death and trapped in a robotic octagon dungeon.

Fenoff has stopped his onslaught on Sam, has dropped the hypnotism facade of Sarah’s kitchen in an attempt to control Sam or to do worse to him. Fenoff is pleading in calm and pre-recorded tones to stop. To not smash his face in. To be calm and focus. Tell Fenoff about his family. Does he have any siblings?

If this were one of Clint’s bad movie flicks, he’d have a really good one liner right now. Clint and Sam love to toss one liners at each other, always rejoice when they happen to come up with the same one at the same time and say it together. But something Sam’s noticed since he started picking up on ASL, not necessarily since he started learning, it happened when he started to understand it on sight. He was still intermediate at it as a language, but the more comfortable he got watching it and knowing what was being said, the more appreciation he had for movement as expression. Words are important. As a journalist, words are the most important thing Sam has, they’re a power he carries with him and they can go bump in the night like any other powerful force. Words are a guide in the dark, with mirrors and false walls, monsters standing in plain sight but seeming unreachable. Words shatter illusions.

But words aren’t always vocal. More things are said with actions, with the body, with the way Clint’s eyes glaze over when he’s watching Sam speak. The way Sam feels protected and supported with Clint at his side and aiming the camera. Those things couldn’t be said, not with the succinct accuracy that it requires. Those have to be shown.

Clint smashes the axe into Fenoff’s circuit board and doesn’t stop hacking even when the wires are exposed and the copper starts to spark. He doesn’t stop when the lights start to flash around them and the speakers shake with sounds of emergency, a recorded voice crying for help in a heavily accented monotone. Clint moves onto the keyboard and some of the exposed wires of several hard drives. The thing about having a computer so powerful that it is big enough to take over an entire room is that in order to annihilate that computer you need to hack up the entire room. Clint focuses on the speaker systems, not a problem for him, but Sam stops visibly shaking after the first speaker goes down and comes out of the fetal position after the second. Clint makes quick work of the third and fourth and then goes at the walls again.

Sam watches Clint’s body move, his strong arms pull back, the Axe, heavy and glinting its own kind of cruel reflective light, is lifted over Clint’s head and it’s a heavy powerful weapon.

Fenoff’s voice is zen until the end, until the speakers burst, the keys and knobs of the control panel caught fire, and Clint only stopped hacking when Sam stood up and put his hand on Clint’s hip, giving in the smallest squeeze. A gentle thing that says, “you’ve got me” and Clint buries the axe into the screens, breaking one last wall of glass for the finale and leaving it there.

Clint turns around to Sam, and before they can say anything, Sam still not sure what to say in the language of words and moving lips, but instead only able to touch and feel and move through the moment, through the things that must be expressed.

So Sam kisses him.

He tastes like warm cider, or maybe it’s something residual, still lingering in Sam’s body after his ordeal with Fenoff’s hypnosis.

Sam is pulled out of the kiss suddenly, Clint grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him off, holding him there while he searches Sam’s eyes for answers.

But there’s no question. Maybe just: so we’re kissing bros now? Or something like that but Sam doesn’t want to ask and Clint knows the answer anyway. He proves that much when he pulls Sam back towards him and kisses him harder, with more heat, the kind of kiss that says “I’m glad we didn’t die but we still might” and Sam melts into it like a hot Epsom salt bath with lavender. Clint encircles his arms around Sam, and Sam was right, he knew it, he knew that Clint’s arms would feel steady and powerful, would make him feel weak in the knees but precious in an embrace.

Clint is also an enthusiastic kisser— something tells Sam that this is more an element of disbelief, Clint can’t believe he’s kissing Sam.

Sam pulls away this time, suddenly remembering that they have a lot of responsibilities that can’t wait until they’re done playing seven minutes in heaven. Or rather, Sam thinks as he looks around them at the shattered glass, exposed wires, and burning computer board, seven minutes in mirror maze hell.

Sam makes sure Clint is looking at him and asks, voice a little huskier than he means it to be but he assumes that won’t come off across Clint, “Where’s the camera?”

“Left it by the exit,” Clint answers in a tone that indicates he _did_ pick up on Sam’s tone like maybe he knows the way Sam’s lips caress a word in a certain mood. “I got a little footage of the maze before you got locked in here.”

“We need to get out,” Sam insists, nodding at the growing fire in the room. Clint nods and pushes Sam along in front of him, out towards the door and through the empty wire frames of destroyed mirrors.

Clint picks up the camera, lofts it onto his strong shoulder. It can’t be very comfortable for him without a shirt on, but at that moment, Sam simply can’t prioritize suggesting Clint put his shirt back on so he instead just looks about the hall, orientates himself in the space again, thinking of the map, and then knowing at least the first directions to take to get to a map. Then they’re going to Lykos’s lab. They’re going to save Kate, get some good footage, and get the hell out of here before this nightmare place burns to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say "hi" on Twitter: @madam_michael


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're a coward, Bucky Barnes."

They are going to have a serious talk about sword fighting later, Ty needs to make a special note of it. And it’s hard to think of an ending, it’s hard to imagine them getting out of this but somehow Ty can picture it easily. He’s sitting on his couch with Tandy; Gert and Chase are in the Lazy-Boy chair together, and Molly has a pillow and blanket set up on the ground in front of the coffee table, full access to all the snacks. They’re going to buy out the junk food aisle at the store and watch Dragon Hart, The Mask Of Zorro, and Jurassic park in one sitting. He keeps that in his mind as a goal, a thing to aim towards so he doesn’t panic and freeze up.

He knows how he wants this to end. He just needs to get there.

Tandy doesn’t go in swinging, the sword in her hand feeling more like a stage prop and less convincing by the minute. But the snake doesn’t strike yet. He keeps looking at them like it enjoys seeing them fully in the light of the lab. Ty finds it hard to say that the snake has an advantage now because it’s not totally accurate: it implies the snake _didn’t_ have an advantage before. The snake has every advantage because it’s ten times their size and able to crush a school bus in half with its body. It has sabers for teeth and Ty bets they’re venomous.

But Tandy doesn’t act like the snake is the one with the advantage. She’s not even sweating, or panting out of breath, and her hands don’t tremor. She glares at the snake like he’s unconvinced her for the last time.

“Ty,” She calls to him, keeping her eyes on the snake, “you have to get the records somehow, we need to get those out of here.”

“How?” Ty asks, “we don’t have the tech. Our phones are shot. We need something that can hold data records like that—”

“Ty, I don’t know how to do it, you do the computer stuff. I'll handle the giant serpent,” She sounds annoyed. Which makes him feel a little annoyed back, like okay, they both have a difficult set of tasks in front of them, but she doesn't have to get all snippy with him over it.

“Tandy, come up here,” Ty shouts, begs, and the second he does, the snake strikes at her. It wants to fight her, it doesn’t want her to escape. There is a way it wants to kill them: separated and alone— just as they were always afraid to be.

He scans the room around them. He could jump down to her but how would they get up after? Maybe he could find a rope? He runs around the circle of the observatory, passing by names on tombs and mourning that he can’t save all of them. He has Billy’s spirit with him in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, not like a ghost holding him down. It’s more like he has someone with him, a goal he needs to remember. Something that must be done. He finds the hall connecting to the twin lab and he catches sight of the emergency fire hose. That’s as good a rope as he’s going to find. He rushes to the railing on that end and finds something he doesn’t expect sitting in the belly of the lab, looking around it confused and slightly harried. One of them doesn’t have a shirt on and he’s carrying an axe.

Two men and since they aren’t dinosaurs or giant snakes, Ty takes a chance and calls out to them.

“Who goes there?” Ty hopes that wasn’t as lame as it sounded to him.

The black guy looks up but the shirtless lumberjack doesn’t react to Ty’s voice. Now that he can see his face, Ty gasps and a smile spreads over his face. “Oh damn, are you Sam Wilson from Rare Birds?”

Sam smiles and Ty confirms it’s him.

“You a fan?” Sam asks. Shirtless guy, who Ty recognizes as Clint from the beach and the background of some of Sam’s videos, follows Sam’s gaze up and smiles when he sees Ty. He gives a happy little wave with his axe.

“Can we come up?” Clint asks. “Is our friend Kate up there?”

Ty hurries away, opens the fire hose case and unravels it over the railing. Sam catches it, gives it a few tight tugs before he walks up the wall like an absolute badass.

Ty is beaming when Sam makes it to the top and takes Ty’s offered hand to help him up. Once Sam is on solid ground, he turns around and holds his hand out to Clint who tosses up the axe. It’s not an easy catch for Sam but he manages it and that’s impressive enough for Ty.

“I love your work,” Ty says, mouth feeling a little dry and his hands a little sweaty. Tandy is going to freak out when she-

“Tandy!” Ty shouts. The hose tugs from Clint gripping it and walking up it, grunting more than Ty feels is totally necessary.

Sam gives him a quizzical look and replies, “I didn’t do any work with a Tandy.”

“She’s fighting-!” Ty begins and then suddenly realizes how unbelievable what he’s about to say is. Clint makes it to the top and tosses a small throwing knife between them.

“That’s Kate’s,” Clint says, pointing to it, “there was blood on it. She was here. I think she got out.”

“That’s our intern,” Sam pumps his fist in the air in excitement.

Ty grabs up the knife and, running back to the observatory, shouts, “Giant snake.”

Ty hears Sam ask what that means.

Ty doesn’t bother answering as he re-enters the observatory and finds Tandy panting and sweating through the pits in her clothing but holding her own against the snake.

The serpent seems disappointed that it’s a real sword, but it stinks of mild inconvenience. Like there’s no force on earth that’s going to keep him from snapping her in his mouth.

Ty, a force on earth that the serpent has underestimated, throws the knife straight into the wall nearest Tandy. He had been hoping to implant it in the snake somewhere, maybe open up a wound while he was trying to back Tandy up. She rushes under the coil of his belly, diving and ducking like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs over the winding body of the monster.

She pulls the knife out of the wall like it’s nothing and throws it in a smooth spin— landing it in his eye. He reels his head back and shrieks.

“Ty,” Tandy yells to him. “The records!” she says, like he needs reminding. He sort of does— there’s a lot going on right now. He takes in a breath to steady himself. Sam and Clint aren’t behind him so he turns around and follows back into the other lab.

They’re moving, looking at the large screen and the files, Sam’s hands moving over the keys, getting more familiar with the tech the more he interacts with it.

“Records,” Ty says, an echo of Tandy’s voice in his head, “it’s every awful thing they did to everybody. We need to save the files.”

“We need to get out of here,” Clint adds, looking up at the ceiling of the observatory and squinting at what he sees.

There’s the sound of something large hitting it’s stupid head into a wall and the shreiking laugh of Tandy having barely dodged a blow meant to kill her.

“We need to save Tandy,” Ty adds. It’s good to have a list. They can form a plan with an agenda. True, three does seem like a lot for an agenda at present.

“I can get us out,” Clint announces, tapping Sam on the arm and pointing up at the ceiling. Ty finally looks, not realizing that he hadn’t yet.

It’s the carousel, the underside of it full of gears and twisting wires. It looks gutted and vulnerable but Ty realizes that’s only because he’s seeing it from an angle it wasn’t meant to be.

So why can they see it?

“There’s an emergency panel in bright red there. And a rope wound up around the bottom. I get that emergency lever to go off, the rope descends, we get out of here.”

“No,” Ty says and starts to answer but Sam stops him, points for Ty to look Clint in the face and he starts over, “That lever is pulled. The rope is stuck, that's why it’s not descending. You’d have to climb up there and pull it out manually.”

Clint grins.

Sam furrows his brow.

“What?” Sam asks, slapping Clint on his hairy chest. Should they add finding Clint a shirt to the agenda? Sam doesn’t seem particularly upset about it. “What are you thinking?”

“Oh you’re gonna hate it,” Clint says, grinning and excited, “it’s a terrible idea.”

“Great, well,” Sam sighs, “Go for it partner. Gimme the camera,” Sam holds his hand out for the equipment and Clint passes it over easily. “I’ll get those records, as many as I can onto the terabyte in here.”

Sam puts his hand on Ty’s shoulder, looks him hard in the eyes, and asks, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Tyrone Johnson, Mister Wilson,” Ty reaches out too far and a little awkwardly but Sam finds his hand to shake anyway, “my friends call me Ty.”

“Nice to meet you Ty. How can we get your friend out of that...” Sam looks down the hall and his eyes go wide. He blinks twice, shakes his head, mutters “evil computer” under his breath, and then opens his eyes and looks at Ty. “That giant snake pit?”

Ty puts his hand over Billy’s lighter in his pocket and then gasps.

“I’ve got an idea,” Ty says and, before he can explain it, he decides not to. They don’t have time for a responsible adult and journalist like Sam to talk Ty out of a very dangerous and damaging plan. But it’s a good plan and if Clint is allowed to do a terrible idea then Ty gets his shot as well. He rushes back into the room, sets himself at the edge of the railing, takes Tandy’s bag off of his shoulders, and lays it down.

She is such a hypocrite. Ty finds it deeply frustrating at the best times and annoying at worst. She makes such a big deal about not leaving him behind, coming back for him and being pissed that he would dare martyr himself for her. Then, Tandy Bowen, who is the world’s biggest hypocrite, puts herself in a giant snake pit with a sword she pulled out of a prop and has the nerve to tell Ty to run and leave her.

He is going to give her so much shit for this later. He is planning the speech in his head. He’s not going to stutter or stumble through it— and he’s not going to let her run away from it either. They are talking about it: that she can’t do stupid self-sacrificial shit either. It’s immature and unhealthy no matter which one of them does it.

He opens her messenger bag and starts to pull out the supplies— Billy’s lighter, the first thing he pulls from its safe space in his pocket. He takes it out and gently lays down on his left side so Billy can watch as Ty empties out the other contents on his left.

There’s Billy’s clothes tucked sweetly and secretly inside— Tandy has always done well at hiding things. Hence the ten perfume bottles he pulls out next, uncapping each one and sitting it right side up in front of him. He unpacks the tampons next, tucking each cotton swab into the mouth of the bottles, leaving the string at the top to hang down like a wick.

Tandy is going to have to get a hobby that drains out all that reckless energy she has. She mentioned mountain climbing— that could be something. Or she could take dance again like when she was little. She still watches Center Stage every time she gets sick.

Ty grabs the first perfume bottle from the line of ten and pops his head over the railing to look down at the fight scene below him. Tandy has been holding her own pretty well, it seems the dark is doing more favors for her than the snake— but maybe vision is harder in one eye. Ty calls down to her, just as casual as he pleases, “Hey Bowen,” he says it loud and in his Sean Connery impression. She loves his Sean Connery impression. He hasn’t done it for her for a while. He lights the end of the wick and looks down at her. The snake is locked on him too or, perhaps, on the fire as it climbs up the tampon string.

“Look to the stars, Bowen,” Ty quotes as he aims and throws the perfume bottle right at the snake’s eye. Ty is a pretty good throw— he does a lot of different sports to keep in shape. He also has good aim from basketball.

He feels it inside him, that cocky recklessness that he hasn’t felt in ages, as he tosses the flaming bottle and it smashes into glass and combustion, exploding into the eye of the beast. It’s not a long moment but it happens pretty slowly. There’s a moment in it where Ty and Tandy can catch gazes again, across the arena, and smile.

Tandy rushes at the snake, as it writhes the top of its body, neck swinging left to right and mouth opened in a hiss meant to be a scream. It’s off putting to hear the wrong sound come out of a mouth twisted in another way. Ty picks up the next perfume bottle— nine little perfumes left and the one Ty is about to throw is “kiwi melon” but he can’t say he agrees that’s the scent— at least not in large doses like being soaked into an extra large tampon.

Ty throws it at the back of the snake’s head, and when it hits, the snake tosses his head back. It stretches, far and wrong, and bends back almost completely. Tandy runs up the body of him until she gets as close to the throat as she can before she leaps and cuts at the exposed flesh.

The snake opens his now only good eye and twists himself around so his long body is now turning towards Ty. This means Tandy’s blow lands, it cuts, but not deep enough and not on the kill area of the throat.

Ty grabs two perfume bottles, one in each hand, and takes off running across the arena, running a circle that the snake follows with only one side of his head, keeping that slitted eye on Ty as he runs. Ty passes the vanilla bean bottle into his left hand to couple up close with marshmallow cream— and he swears there is no difference in scent between the two— and the small space where their wicks touch. Ty lights them on fire. It’s more a combination of heat and smell that tells Ty when it’s best to aim and throw the Molotov cocktails. He’s aiming for the other eye, but in motion and with two at a time instead of one, it’s much harder to get his target. The two perfume bottles are shaped differently so where one flies high, landing on a low point of the snake’s curled body, the second drops low and almost catches Tandy. She jumps back, catching her balance on the snake’s body even as he starts to move and uncoil. He’s refocused on her now, on getting her snapped between his fangs, the ones he unsheathes to hiss at her like two scimitars poised to sink in and sting. Maybe he plans to swallow her whole, consume her in a way where no body can be buried.

Ty comes round the other side. Tandy is climbing up the ladder and kicking off the shelves to send her flying a little around the curve of the room. Ty throws his sixth bottle and gets the snake in the side of his face, the one with the bad eye, and the force of the explosion causes him to slam into the wall of terabytes.

They’re destroying graves. They’re burying evidence. They need to leave before the fire gets out of hand.

Tandy comes around the bend and holds her sword out, she has it poised and ready to strike as her ladder slows and she stands just a few feet from Ty, tall and graceful— a dancer with daggers.

The snake’s head finds them, rises and opens its jowls once more. Ty lights his fifth bottle and readies it, lets it burn a little long, get a little too hot, just so he can be sure it makes it all the way to the back of the throat.

It’s like a long and dark tunnel that opens wide to suck them both in, it seems like a deep and fathomless darkness, all consuming and stronger than the two of them.

The explosion is the last kick they need to pull the head back far enough to open the throat. Tandy slices her sword through the snake. She gets deep, Ty can tell by the sheer amount of blood that comes out. Coupled with her slice from earlier, it looks like a crucifix, sticky and red. Ty rushes to shield her from the spray, he manages to get his arms around her, and pull her up from the ladder, and onto the railing.

Her heart is pounding— his heart is pounding and they are in perfect synchronism.

They are about to kiss again, it probably looks really action movie cool and awesome with the flames behind them. Tandy looks kind of smudged up and sweaty from her sword fight and she pushes her hair behind her ear.

It fades the instant Clint, in the other room, lets out a call that sounds more like a yodel but Ty believes is meant to be a cowboy “whoop” of some kind. They hear that strange yodel right before they hear a large hissing, explosion, and then crash.

Ty is up in an instant, helping Tandy to her feet with him. She grabs up her bag, and he picks up her sword and links their free hands before running into the other lab. Sam is pulling a cord out of the computer board and tucking it into the camera. Ty slows and Tandy stops. She waves at Sam but there isn’t a moment for introductions.

“Did you get-?” Ty asks and Sam nods, cutting him off quickly.

“I got them all, I think.”

“Billy Johnson?” Ty asks, mouth dry and breath caught in his throat. Tandy squeezes his hand and he exhales. “Did you find Billy Johnson’s tape?”

Sam nods and Ty wants to believe him. It’s not entirely impossible that Sam kept an eye out for a Wilson or maybe saw the name and made a connection. Or maybe he doesn’t have time to look for Billy’s tape, and he wants Ty to leave without causing a ruckus.

“I have to see it,” Ty says, his voice trembling. He’s so tired. Billy’s lighter is hot and cold in his jeans pocket. Tandy’s hand is the same clasped in his. “If no one sees it, it’s like it-” Ty pauses, trying to find the words, but it seems Sam understands.

Sam puts his hand on Ty’s shoulder again, looks him in the eye, and says in a way that can only be the truth, “Someone will see it. People will know. But it doesn’t have to be you and it doesn’t have to be now. Right now we’ve got to go.”

Ty nods. Sam drops his hand and picks up the camera. They all run together to the Lykos lab.

Clint’s idea was terrible but it also worked. There are oxygen tanks askew in the lab below. Clint built a kind of catapult, aimed, and fired an oxygen tank at the escape latch. It broke some of the gears but it also breaks the latch open and the rope is descending towards them.

The carousel music is playing at double speed, an eerie noise that feels rushed and unstable, the way the fire burns the graves all around him. Unraveling from the bottom and lowering into the room is the escape rope stored in the bottom of the carousel. Tandy holds the sword in one hand and the other she extends and grabs the rope. She keeps her hold but she does go spinning. Her weight on the rope has an effect on the machine, the carousel starts to turn backwards and the center opens up like a trap door kept in the ceiling. The rope raveled into it, pulling Tandy up and into the hole.

He can’t see very well from the smoke. He can’t see the indentation of Tandy’s shoe anymore. He hears the carousel reversing direction again, the rope lowering back down. Ty takes three deep breaths and then holds his hands out. He catches the rope in one hand and there’s a bit of a struggle for him to get a grip with both. It must be triggered by weight, otherwise he’s not sure how it knows when to pull him up. Ty is being lifted up into the exit.

He looks down and it’s all black smoke with orange fire rolling underneath, the flames never large enough to poke through the clouds of black smoke but bright enough to be reflected in the darkness. Ty looks down the entire time, he wants to memorize how it feels to ascend, to fight your dreams and rise from hell to salvation. They fought the serpent and they slew him. Billy’s soul was safe— so many souls were safe, and once he and Tandy are on solid ground, together, they are going to ditch this psycho carnival.

*

Steve does not shoot Alexander. It’s a bad idea and in the end he can only think of Whinie’s soft voice, weak with grief. He lowers the flare gun.

“Are you really going to kill her? Sweet Rebecca,” Pierce’s words do what he means them too, they harpoon Steve through his heart and the sting feels caught between his ribs.

“Don’t say her name,” Steve warns him, because she is sacred and precious and her name in Alexander’s mouth like he cares about her sends Steve into a trembling rage. They need to get the isotope— Pierce is trying to distract him from his goal. Steve picks up the diving suit in his other hand and tosses it towards Pierce. Alexander makes no attempts to catch it and instead just sees it fall at his feet and looks back up at Steve with disinterest.

“I’m not going out there. You fire that thing in here, go ahead, it’ll kill us both. You can threaten me all you like, Captain, but there’s nothing you can do that will make me put that suit on and go out into that darkness.”

Steve sneers because he’s right. He sneers because they’re running out of time, and there’s only so many ways out of this situation. Only so many choices that can lead him back to Bucky and that takes the priority over the testimony of Alexander Pierce.

Steve picks up the suit, sets the flare gun down next to himself and starts to put it on. Alexander looks at the flare gun but doesn’t make any moves towards it. Instead he sits down on the floor, bending his knees and getting comfortable as Steve slides his arms inside and picks up the flare gun.

“You aren’t going to let him kill her. We can keep her alive. We’re so close to making progress with communication— “

“Don’t pretend to have a heart,” Steve says, picking up the helmet and dawning it. It clicks into place and Steve feels another release of pressure in the metal all around him. “You’re hoping I’ll die out there. No need to lie.”

Steve goes to the drop and twists at the wheel until it opens up a hole in the bottom. The water pours in clear and looks like nothing but wetness on the padded floor of the pod. He looks down into the water, however, and it’s pitch black and no escape. He grabs onto the railing of the ladder and puts one leg in lowering down and feeling such a strong chill that it seeps into the flesh and right to the marrow in his bones. He is descending into death, becoming a ghost that swims in the river of the dead. He always dreamed of meeting Bucky at the bottom of the sea like this— that they could be in the cold and dark together. Steve looks at Alexander Pierce, takes in his smug smile and the way his cuticles look picked to shreds— a nervous habit Pierce never trained himself out of. He looks at Pierce and he knows that this man plans to kill Steve in the next few minutes. Steve has no choice but to descend. Between the devil and the depths Steve, in the end, chooses the crushing dark.

They need the isotope. He’s going to make it back to Bucky. Steve starts to lower himself and Pierce makes a move much faster that Steve gave him credit for. The man was old but not as tired and slow as he had been as they descended. He had been acting weak, presenting himself to Steve as tired while all the time waiting for a chance to catch Steve off guard.

He gets hold of the flare gun and they wrestle over it. Pierce kicks him in the torso a few times, the steel toe of his shoes catching Steve in the ribs and forming bruises but not puncturing anything. He’ll be safe in the suit from the pressure and lack of oxygen. He won’t if Pierce blasts a hole into it now with the flare gun.

So Steve does what a man in a diving suit ought to do: he dives. He sinks and lowers himself into the water with more reflex than conscious purpose but he makes it out of the hole just in time for the flare gun to go off in a highly pressurized metal chamber.

Steve is pushed back quite a bit by the force of the explosion. In his sight is nothing but bubbles climbing up in every direction around him as far as the eye can see. But even before the bubbles clear, and the waves steady, before he sees the wreckage of the pods, before Steve sees where it also blew a hole into the cliff side revealing the isotope— before any of that Steve knows Alexander Pierce is dead.

Steve’s heart beats in his chest with that uncanny knowing that he is deep underwater, in the fathoms of the dark, and he is utterly alone.

*

“You,” Gert starts and then falters. She takes in a deep breath and then, shouting a little, “you jumped in front of a tiger for me. Was that real?” At the same time they all look at his arm, metallic, familiar, and glinting like a mirror in the dark.

“I think it was,” James replies and it kicks Molly in the heart for some reason— there’s a painful uncertainty and she feels it too. “I remember the feel of it. Little flashes.” He waves his metal hand over his head, like his memories could be projected above him.

“You took me to the beach. You built sand castles,” Gert’s hand starts to tremor, a nervous tick that her meds normally mellow out, and Molly feels the same kind of tremble in Old Lace’s left side. A way the skin trembles in places, not so much a limb— like she’s shaking off flies. “Was that real?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t think it was, sweetheart,” his throat is wet, like he’s trying to hold in a cry.

“Then how can we trust you?” Gert takes a step towards him and Old Lace bears her teeth but James doesn’t flinch. He closes his eyes even, like he denied a blindfold before execution but regrets it now. This bullet is too slow to watch. “Answer me,” Gert doesn’t yell it, but it comes out harder than a yell, her voice so full of conviction there’s no need for volume.

James opens his eyes, puts both flesh and metal hand in the air, and lowers himself to his knees. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he says and it makes Gert take back her one step. “I care about you. I ran here to save you from your parents. That’s real,” Gert’s hand steadies and so does Old Lace’s side. Molly even relaxes her own fingers that she hadn’t noticed were coiled tight in Old Lace’s feathery mane. “It just happened and no one’s playing heartbeats,” He says it with conviction, the same emotional weight lofted back at them and they catch it deftly in their hands. “I’m going to do whatever I have to to protect you. _That’s_ real,” he says it like last words and closes his eyes again.

Old Lace kneels and tips forward so Molly can slide off. She runs to him, falls to the ground and dusts up her jeans. She wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him close and it feels so good to be in the arms of someone who would never harm her. He lowers his arms and wraps them around her.

He’s apologizing, but Molly doesn’t care about any of that so she keeps interrupting him to say, “I knew it,” until it’s the only thing being said. Bucky quiets and lets her say it until Gert rushes over and hugs them both.

“I was so scared,” Gert whispers, “we’ve got to get the others out.” Bucky pulls away from them and stands. He takes a couple of steps towards Old Lace before he thinks to pause and wait. She sniffs his metal arm and after a moment lowers her head for petting. Bucky gives her a few cursory pats and then pats his palms along her body as he walks behind her to the back of a van— like one does to a horse to prevent being kicked.

He searches the back but finds the materials Staci and Dale used to tie Gert up fairly quickly— it seems neither of them had had time to put the stuff away so it was just sitting there two feet away from Gert the whole time. Bucky makes quick work of tying Dale and Staci up and with his arm he’s strong enough to carry both of them into the back of the van.

Bucky stands aside and waits for Old Lace to walk into the back. He waits a little while, tapping his foot and then eventually gesturing to the back of the van. Molly gives Old Lace a pat on the shoulder and this spurs the dinosaur into walking into the back. The van dips but then steadies once Old Lace is inside. Judging from the set up of the van, the general Abduction Vibe, it has cages and chains made to hold her. The van is designed for Old Lace to ride in. Molly wonders then, why did they leave Old Lace behind? They could have fit her in the back with Gert.

Unless they’d known Old Lace would find them when she woke up. But Molly had been the one to get her upright, saddle up, and ride her to Gert. Had they expected that? Was this a ruse? Was this real?

She’s dizzy— she hates being dizzy and she’s felt it on and off all day. She doesn’t fall but she does tip over a little, Bucky there to catch her and hold her up.

“You want the middle seat or shotgun?” Bucky asks her. There’s something too sincere about that— it eases her because it’s such a small thing but Bucky really cares. Molly feels betrayed by Staci and Dale, still needs to find out what roles her birth parents had to play, but she knows with complete certainty that Bucky cares about her. Bucky will protect her and do anything for her.

“Middle seat’s good. Can I pick the music?” Molly answers smiling up at him.

He grins back and opens the passenger side door for her to climb in. He says, “Not Dale’s tapes. Dale’s mix tapes suck,” as his one stipulation and she agrees.

Gert does too, climbing into the shotgun seat and buckling in, as she says “That’s a given by the fact that they’re _tapes_ ”. Bucky shuts the door and gets in the driver’s seat. There’s a few quiet minutes while he adjusts the mirrors and the seat and Molly scans through the tape collection. She picks out a best of Ritchie Valens CD and swaps it for the one that’s already in the player, Phish 2004. She hands that one off to Gert who slips it through the crack in the car door window like she was putting it in a player and then lets it fly through the air only to get kicked up under the wheel of the van and crushed to sweet death. Molly keeps her hand held out to Gert in a fist until her older sister properly taps her knuckles in acceptance.

“So, and I feel like it would be weirder for me not to ask,” Bucky says, loud enough to be heard over the soft tones of one of the greatest voices of all time, “but how was your date?”

Gert tips her head to the side, blinks twice, and then smiles, “It was going pretty well up to a certain point.”

“He was three seconds from taking his shirt off,” Molly adds, because this feels like an important detail her sister is leaving out.

“How’s your night?” Gert asks, and then adds, “You’re right: not asking feels weirder.”

“Difficult question to answer,” Bucky says, nodding his head in thought— he purses his lips and smacks them together before finishing, “I’m kind of on a date with Captain Rogers.”

“Who?” Molly and Gert ask at the same time.

“It’s— he’s—” Bucky waves his hand in a circular motion towards his body like this can get the gears turning in his mind. He gives up and says, “That’s just, like, really complicated.”

Bucky, somehow knowing the way to drive this van around the park at night, eases them back inside and towards the ferris wheel. He parks and jumps out, running around the back to open the doors for Old Lace and then grabbing the tranquilizer gun from its perch on the left wall of the van. Gert climbs out of the side and stays to help Molly out before she shuts the door and they both run around to find Bucky walking back towards the tunnel of love. Molly, Gert, and Old Lace all trot after him, each sister coming up on one side of him, Gert on his left, Molly his right, and Old Lace keeping pace behind them covering their backs.

“What are we doing?” Molly asks. Bucky loads the tranqus into the gun while moving and without looking— his body familiar with the motions of a weapon.

“We need to get down to Lykos’s lab to save your friends, probably save some reporters too now that I think of it,” Bucky sighs and shakes his head as if in earnest, “they were woefully unprepared to handle Lykos I should not have let them go off alone. That was my bad.”

“We need to find Ty and Tandy too,” Molly adds, and then, with a little more whimsy, “and your Captain date or whoever.”

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head, looking away from her up at the sky and pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth. She knows this expression, this laugh, they’ve had these often, real ones. This is real.

“What’s your type anyway?” Molly presses. Bucky looks down at her, still smiling.

“Pretty idiots,” Bucky answers.

“Oh hey you and Gert share a type,” Molly says, giving Gert a smile when she leans behind their uncle to glare at her.

“So what’s the gun for?” Gert asks. Bucky cocks it one handed and then tosses it up to grab the handle deftly and lean it over his shoulder.

“Trouble. We gotta get ten more people out of here safely and kill, minimum, one dinosaur,” Bucky talks about it like it’s a list of chores he’d really rather sleep through. Old Lace gives a hiss behind them and before things can escalate Bucky amends, “we go on a case by case basis. Right now the people are the priority.”

Bucky is marching towards the carousel, tossing the tranqu gun in the air, catching and cocking it in one smooth motion. Memories of how cool Bucky is are forming themselves around the man himself, Molly feeling overwhelmed a little.

“There’s an emergency entrance under-” Bucky was most likely going to say “carousel”. Not only were they making a direct march towards it but it starts to spin backwards and at a much faster speed than before. It sinks, like a top drilling into the concrete. Old Lace makes a noise of pain and Molly pulls her hat down over her ears.

The carousel doesn’t sink all the way. It more bobs up and down like something in it is spooling and wrapping back up a few too many times. The carousel ascends on an up bob and the center, where wires and the electrical panel are still exposed, opens up, all the machinery hung on the back of the door like in a kitchen pantry. It’s Tandy first and she trips over the panel of the carousel and kicks it, hard, out of her way. Ty is not far behind, coming out on the next up bob and immediately planting himself next to Tandy. They must have made up, probably being trapped in an underground evil laboratory will do that to a couple. Ty and Tandy jump off of the carousel together and rush up to them. Gert steps forward, looking at the panel with anxiety about who will, or won’t, come out next.

Tandy looks confused about their little group, Ty looks at the live dinosaur in front of him moving and blinking, her teeth unbarred and her movement curious. Molly pats her on the shoulder and asks Ty, “You can pet her. She’s with us.”

Ty moves so fast to pet Old Lace on the head that the movement scares her a little and she has to pull back and examine Ty for a moment.

“You’re Cap’s crush right?” Tandy asks, not nearly as impressed with Old Lace as she should be. Ty is grinning so big his face could break from it.

Bucky blushes and looks beyond the carousel to see a third man coming up from the panel. “Is he with you? Who all is with you?” Bucky asks.

“This is Sam and Clint,” Tandy says, indicating the third man and a fourth who emerges from the carousel shirtless and carrying an axe.

“What the hell happened in there?” Molly asks, looking between all of them and landing on Ty who gestures around them.

“What the hell happened _out here_?” Ty asks back and Molly sighs because he’s got a good point there.

“We’re the last of our group,” Sam announces, stepping into the center and instantly taking command of the situation. Bucky even steps back and lowers his gun— Sam must have some skill in a crisis if Uncle Bucky is deferring to him already. “Who are we missing?” Sam asks and looks them over.

“Chase,” Gert says quickly at the same time Bucky says “Steve”.

Sam nods, starts to survey the area, the rides. “Kate too,” Sam concludes. “We need to hurry, we left a couple fires downstairs and I think they’re joining up.”

Molly’s feet feel warm, way too warm compared to how the rest of her feels exposed in the March night air. They’re so close to the sea, wind is sweeping up all around them.

“Where do we even look?” Tandy asks. Gert turns around until she spots the roller coaster and points towards it.

“There’s a panel under there. They scooped the saber-tooth tiger in,” Gert explains.

“Actually it’s called a Smilodon,” Ty mutters and Tandy smiles and gives him a soft nudge with her elbow. He keeps petting Old Lace. Old Lace makes happy little noises like a cockatoo getting chin scratches.

“That leads to the lab,” Sam replies, “definitely one of the fires. No one was in there.”

“Lower levels are flooded,” Bucky answers, “I’m remembering the emergency exit. After the foghorn. And Steve.” It’s the most explanation Bucky can offer at the moment, but Molly understands what he means. Memories are filling in over places where the noise has died out in her mind. There was this low level of ringing all the time that she’s finally noticed is fading.

Instead she just hears the distorted music of the carousel and the thunder.

It’s not storming. Molly looks up and then feels a slight shaking in the ground around them. Not below. Not the feel of fire rising and the crumbling of ash under them. The shaking is in the air, like something is moving too big through the land.

Bucky sees her first. He’s the one who calls attention to her, rising is gun ready to fire and stepping in front of Molly and Gert on instinct.

It’s Bex, the dinosaur clinging to the memories of Bucky’s _real_ sister. The woman who saw Molly crying in the dark and came to ask her if she was all right.

“Where are your parents? Maybe I can help,” the first and last words Molly heard from Bex. Such a small moment, but it feels too big inside of Molly’s heart and she cries again. Old Lace lifts her head and stands tall, investigating the larger beast that crushes trees and all else that stands in her way. What she wants isn’t clear, but somehow Molly can feel Gert’s heart beating with Old Lace’s and how her own pulse falls into the pace. Bucky must be feeling it in the parts of his body that he’s reclaiming. His hand is steady on the trigger— he doesn’t intend to fire but maybe it just steadies him to pretend. The action like a prayer that brings comfort from habit.

Bex is covered in shells and dirt, cuts all over her torso and belly, cut from the rocks she climbed up the opposite way. She sets a claw down on the iron gate they broke in through and crushes it into bent metal in seconds. Molly remembers the feel of the chain being clipped under the pliers. The release of pressure and the sound of something slipping apart. Not so much breaking or being cut, but a sensation of being removed from a chain that imprisoned her as a link inside of it.

Bex has snapped from the chain too.

*

In the blinding light of the explosion it’s his mother that he sees. It’s not Bucky, like he always imagined it would be, but Sarah Rogers. The way Steve remembers her looking when he was still a skinny thing, shorter than her but too old to sit in her lap or be tucked in at night. She’s wearing a dress, dark blue and flowing, a peasant skirt with ruffles and some clay drying on her hands.

She smiles and he can’t help it, the tears well up in him, and with a sob Sarah is gone and Steve is underwater, feeling the pressure pushing at him from all sides, and a darkness he doesn’t know if his eyes can adjust to. Steve reaches out in front of himself and tries to make out the shape of his hand in the darkness. He might as well be blind as lost and running out of air. Steve looks down, checks his tank and then winces when he realizes either it’s broken or he’s not very good at reading the damn thing. Steve doesn’t do diving as a regular activity. He’s not dead yet, and that’s the thing that matters. He’ll have to keep his mind clear, the hallucination of his mother an unnerving sign that he’s already suffering from lack of oxygen, or pressure sickness, or maybe he already died in the explosion and this is just the after life; waiting in the dark for nothing.

Steve Rogers is physically incapable of doing nothing. Steve Rogers will do nothing, literally, only over his dead body. Since he can move and jump, since he feels dry inside the suit and warm enough to keep from shivering, Steve notes that he’s still alive. So he will not do nothing.

So he looks for the isotope. His eyes adjust partially to the darkness and are able to see a decent distance in front of him. He remembers years of long nights and foggy days watching the shoreline, keeping his eyes sharp for long distances and able to pick up and form shapes, even clouded like a graveyard in Autumn. He doesn’t have the power of the lighthouse to see by, to lead him up and out of this place. When Steve tilts his head back he can see no light. He’s too far down to try and puzzle out that problem. He doesn’t have the foghorn to signal for help either, just the lonely beating of his heart that can only call to one person and Steve will not have Bucky swimming to the bottom of the ocean for him. He can’t solve that problem right now either. But the isotope he can hold in the lining of the diving suit, and he can carry it to Bucky safely. Steve is prepared and able to break open any cage it’s trapped under.

There's a little safe, turned upside down, and marked with a black flash on the side from the explosion. Steve runs his gloved hand over the pattern of a starburst, like it was blessed by the darkness. He reaches for the handle and tries to turn it, finding it locked, of course. With Pierce dead Steve has no hopes of figuring out the code. He could try to listen to the lock but he’s no expert thief— Steve has never seen a safe in his life, the closest he’s come is a combination lock on his bike when he was a kid. Steve touches the combination dial, gives it a turn left and right and back again, trying to understand the device by touch through his gloves. It’s not easy, but there’s a slight change in the feel of the dial when it hits a number that opens one of the barrels. Steve keeps his hand steady and turning, exploring and feeling for the numbers again.

He has all three in the span it takes for his breathing tank to tick down into a yellow column from a green. Steve is assuming that’s bad but not as bad as it’s going to get. He focuses on the safe again, deep breaths and closing his eyes. All combination locks have a simple pattern of direction. Steve doesn’t have to try all of the combinations to open the safe, his fifth attempt is the right one— and not too soon as Steve’s memory was having trouble holding his past attempts in mind.

The isotope is small. Steve had imagined it to be the size of a small cannon ball at least— but it’s not even snowball sized. It could be a rifle slug, Steve concludes after he reaches into the safe and scoops it into his hand.

So much death sleeping inside such a small thing. Steve leaves the safe open, he closes his palm around the bullet, and turns away. Steve more feels than sees movement behind him. A little creature diving into the safe, making it a home. It will bloom rust into the world around it, barnacles growing like a garden of vines, and tentacles will caress it, feel the click and turn of the dial and know the numbers that make it release.

If there are remains of Alexander Pierce, of the pod they descended in, it will meet the same fate. Steve doesn’t look back. He moves forward trying to find the space in the darkness where he isn’t alone.

*

Chase drives the boat out into the open and Kate looks out into the water with quiet desperation. She can’t see Sam, Clint, or the boat they followed her in. She isn’t quite sure where to go from here, there is no great beast climbing the mountain but Kate doesn’t believe for a second it’s because the dinosaur gave up.

From the way Lykos chased them down, the desperation that ate up any fear of death in him, Kate doesn’t think these beasts are capable of giving up. They must burn the world down around them, take all of their pain with them, so it doesn’t leak out and poison the world.

Chase drives them in circles a little bit while Kate keeps looking out around them through the lens of the harpoon. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for and she hopes CHase doesn’t interrupt her and ask because—

“What are you looking for?”

Kate lets out a belabored sigh and pulls her eye away from the lens. Only when she blinks at the world around her does she realize how sore and tired her eyes are from straining through the scope. Kate presses her hands to her eyes and tries to rub the discomfort out of them. She needs a long nap after all of this.

“I don’t know,” Kate replies, “I just have this feeling like we’re supposed to find something here.”

Chase turns the motor off and let’s the boat bob and float on it on, following the pull of the tide, which is rolling them in the direction of the clifface the and caves, the other side of where they’ve escaped from. Who knows what monsters await them there?

Who knows which ones are underneath them now? Jaws opening up to slow them and their harmless Styxx and Stones.

“Me too,” Chase admits after the motor finishes it’s loud purr and the only sound around them is the wind pushing them inward. Waning tide. “I can’t really describe it but it’s like a cry for help.”

“A cry can be for all kinds of things,” Kate says, not exactly correcting Chase’s interpretation but she feels it’s an important distinction to make. She feels like it’s a cry of desperation. Loneliness, fuelling screams and keeping hearts beating, maybe it’s an instinct of survival, developed over years, adapted and changed to suit the environment. Growing rather than dying as maybe all life should do.

“It’s a cry to be found,” Kate clarifies, finding the words after a click goes off inside of her, like a grandfather clock that’s perfectly tuned. She runs to the captain’s panel where Chase is still resting his hand on the engine key and gear shift like he might need to fire it up at any moment.

“What are you looking for now?” Chase asks, watching her touch each key, knob, button, and whatnot she can get her hands on looking for something with purpose now. Not an unknown sign in the dark sea.

“Anchor,” Kate says, “we need it to go down, descend as far down as it can.”

“Why? We’re in the middle of—” Chase begins but then stops himself, closing his own mouth and putting his hands up in agreement. “You know what? I trust your judgment. Here,” Chase reaches behind her and points starboard. Kate turns around and sees it: it’s a mechanism, because of course it is. It’s a long chain at the core of it’s design so it would need a large bob to hold all the thread. Kate is just thrilled that it looks like it falls deep, down into the fathoms to hook old beasts in their cheeks and drag them up like trophies.

She finds the cranks and it takes her a second or two to find the right position to push or pull it in, she manages to center her strength and push it all the way to the other side.

When it drops the whole boat feels it, it’s such a violent jerk that Chase falls on his ass and Kate narrowly avoids the same fate by catching herself on her hands. The boat rocks, unsteady as if trapped in a tempest, but the chain is long and the ocean is fathoms deep and eventually the boat evens out.

Kate stands and walks over to Chase, her sea legs coming back to her instantly, and she offers Chase her hand to pull him back into standing. He mutters a sincere thanks to her and rests against the wheels of the boat. She leans next to him and closes her eyes. She can hear carnival music, roars and screaming under it, and she opens her eyes quickly as if a nightmare had been playing in the black of her lids.

She turns around, looks behind them and sees the shore, jagged rocks to climb up, but then a trail or road winding around the mountain. They would have to climb. Kate isn’t sure they’d be able to, they certainly don’t have the equipment.

She needs to find Sam and Clint. She has no idea where they are, if the water has risen in the labs to dangerous levels, or if monsters like Lykos were hiding in corners, waiting to cut into the hearts of trespassers. She’s not going to cry— she doesn’t want to look weak in front of the kid. He clearly needs a strong role model in order to keep it together. But she’s scared for Sam and Clint in the way she would be if Susan were trapped in that house of horrors.

She stays standing, her legs naturally finding a balance this time as the boat rocks and the anchor stops. Kate looks to the spool, and finds that there is at least two meters left of it and she beams.

“We hit rock bottom,” Kate says excitedly punching her fist into the air and jumping with joy.

“Things aren’t that bad?” Chase asks, because he can’t quite connect the dichotomy of her words and her tone.

“There’s still chain left,” Kate informs him, pointing at the spool so he can see, “it means we hit the bottom of something. Whatever is down there can find us.”

“What if it’s something we don’t want to find us?” Chase asks, his throat constricting a little in a gulp of terror.

Kate actually hadn’t considered that. Before she can react to it though, the chain pulls and tugs three distinct times and it’s a clear sign they’ve been found by _whatever_ under the water.

Kate shrugs, “We came this far,” she explains and Chase, still with fear pounding in his pulse, nods in agreement.

Kate pulls the lever back and the wheel spins again. Undoing all the distance and the clattering of the links, and moving backwards.

Kate wishes deeply that all things could be so easily undone. She holds her breath as it ravels without tangles.

*

Steve walks through the ocean and counts his steps, his paces off the longest plank. Steve won’t know what will kill him at the end but maybe those who were made to walk planks never did. After all, it’s not like the fall could kill them, and unless they were weighed down it might not be sinking or drowning that does it either.

Steve knows his fate as much as any man walking towards doom, walking through a valley of darkness, beneath a shadow of death. He can feel the isotope through the glove and he notes that it’s warm, he can feel it through the suit, and he wonders if he would have frozen to death without stopping to get it first.

Steve knows he is not alone thirty paces before he sees the anchor and chain. He runs and it’s slow and hard in the underwater conditions but there’s a fear eating up at him that it will disappear when he grabs it— that he’ll find himself a ghost haunting the bottom of the sea where he died.

The anchor and chain are real, Steve can grasp them anyway, and keeping one hand clutched around the isotope he uses his other to hoist himself up the chain. He feels heavy, so many things pushing against him, trying to hold him down in the dark, suffocate and waste him, but he’ll climb out of hell one handed if it means seeing Bucky again. If it means saving Bex. If it means that there is some hope of preventing it from ever happening again.

He climbs quite a ways up when the chain starts to pull up by itself. He stops climbing and holds tight with both hands on his precious means of escape. The higher he gets the faster the line pulls him up and Steve starts to feel dizzy from it. He’s moving so fast— it’s like a vertigo in his stomach and his ears pop several times. It’s too loud in his mind, like the gun shot, the explosion. The screams of grief sound like a high pitched whistling in his ears and he has to close his eyes as the pressure behind them starts to feel too great.

The anchor comes to a halt before Steve can smack his head on the bottom of the boat. He opens his eyes and when his stomach settles he pushes off of the anchor chain and climbs up to the surface on a little ladder hanging off the end of the boat.

When Steve breaks the surface he gasps but finds that it’s not enough air and he hadn’t been holding his breath. But he needs oxygen— he needs to breathe properly so he can stop being too dizzy. He takes off the diving helmet, feels a release of pressure inside the helmet and then the swift strike of the cold sea air on his skin when he removes it.

It’s Chase and the intern who was recording Steve earlier. The one who’s bosses were risking life and limb to rescue. Steve is relieved to see that both of them are safe.

Chase rushes over and Kate follows to help pull Steve onto the deck. Steve collapses. He’s so heavy— the world is trying to push him back into the sea. This boat will sink before Steve Rogers will again— that’s a vow he makes of himself.

“Captain,” Chase says, reaching for Steve’s closed fist, “what happened? What’s that?”

Steve pulls his hand away from Chase quickly, not wanting to see what happens when the isotope hits bare human flesh. Chase gasps a little, as if the suddenness of the movement scared him but then he just looks concerned for Steve.

“Captain, you might be sick, we need to get an oxygen tank. Or decompression—” Chase begins.

Steve cuts him off— there’s no time for any of that and besides, Steve feels fine. Well he feels terrible but it’s easy to ignore the pain he’s in when Bucky needs him. Steve holds his closed fist with the isotope up and says, “We need to get this to Bucky. We need to get to the fairgrounds.”

Chase looks from Steve to Kate and back several times like he’s not sure who’s orders to follow even though Steve’s the only one to have given one.

“What is it?” Kate asks, cocking her head to the left curiously but not taking any steps closer to it as a precaution.

“A radioactive isotope,” Steve answers, “the only one of its kind this side of oak ridge. And we need to get it to Bucky.”

“How?” Kate asks, looking up towards the cliff, where the bright lights and screams are flashing everywhere. Steve’s head hurts so much. “It’ll take a long while for us to dock and climb up the usual way.”

“We definitely can’t go back the way _we_ came,” Chase adds, raising his eyebrows in a significant gesture that Kate non-verbally agrees with. Steve makes a note to ask later.

“What if we could shoot it to him?” Kate asks. Steve opens his eyes and blinks at her, his vision feels a little tipsy but even when he focuses he finds he’s not sure what she means. “The harpoon,” Kate explains, walking up to the contraption and Steve stands up as her plan dawns on him.

It’s too fast and he tumbles down, Chase doing his best to catch the man two times his size. Chase props Steve up against the anchor spool and then trips over Steve’s diving helmet as he rushes down below into the galley.

Steve looks at his closed fist and then to Kate standing by the harpoon. “I don’t think I’m a good enough shot. I’m not sure Chase is.”

“I am,” Kate says, matter of factly and leaving no room for argument. Steve smirks.

“You can fire it up to the top of the cliff?”

“If you can load it,” Kate promises, throwing her arm over the scope of the harpoon turned sling- shot, “I can fire it.”

Chase comes back with an oxygen mask and as many small tanks as he can carry— five Steve counts out after Chase, tripping over the helmet again on his way back, drops all of them next to Steve and then sits beside him. Chase starts to fuss with the masks and the tanks but Steve puts his hand on Chase’s shoulder and stops him.

“In a minute,” Steve orders, “we have to load this. Somehow,” Steve holds up his hand and for the first time since he closed fingers around it Steve opens his palm.

He thought the isotope would look dimmer up here, with the natural brightness of the moon and the candy bright lights of the fair above them it would look much less like the only light for miles. It would make sense since it would no longer be the only light for miles.

But it still shines cold and bright and Steve feels both sick to look at it and steady to feel it weighed in his palm.

“We can’t touch it right?” Chase asks and Steve nods in confirmation. “But the suit you’re wearing can,” Chase says this with a revelation type of attitude and he turns around and scrambles across the deck to grab the diving helmet that has thwarted him twice. “We put it in here.”

Kate makes a sound of shocked delight and rushes over, “Yes,” she says, almost proud like she has some influence over Chase’s idea. “I can absolutely fire it if it’s in there.”

“We’ll need to seal it,” Chase says and looks back at Steve expectantly, “we’ll need the whole diving suit for that. We can stuff it inside the helmet like packing peanuts.”

Steve nods, moving like molasses but as fast as he can stand to get out of the diving suit. Kate takes the helmet from Chase and holds it out to Steve like a collection basket and Steve drops the isotope in like it’s nothing more than two gold coins to pay his way. Chase is helpful in getting Steve out of the diving suit faster and locking and stuffing it into the helmet. Steve feels like he’s going to throw up but he keeps his eyes on Kate.

He needs to see it fired. She holds it in both hands, passes between them, and throws it into the air and catches it a few times, measuring out the weight of it by touch until she loads it into the harpoon gun.

She doesn’t fire it right away, first she goes to an emergency kit on the port side, tucked behind some life vests she tosses these out of her way and pulls the flare gun from its perch behind the pillows. She also pulls out the fire extinguisher but she doesn’t use it so Steve assumes that was more just a safety precaution she did while she was at it. She walks back to her station and aims the flare gun, peering at it through both eyes, even and steady as she lowers and lifts it, moves it a few degrees to port and then another to starboard until she feels the aim out and fires.

Steve had forgotten about the high pitched shriek of a flare gun when it goes off, the way it cuts off in an explosion and the sizzling of fire dying before it rains down. If Steve hadn’t taken her seriously before he is certainly convinced of her skills now. The flare gun goes off and gives her a point to aim to— but more important it lets others note her target.

Quick as she can she drops the flare gun, crouches to look into the scope of the gun and then fires after only shifting northeast by two degrees.

It flies through the air like a meteor, headed into flames to destroy all life around it. Something to help start everything over. Meteors and floods have that in common. Steve stands up as if he could see atop the cliff, the place where the isotope lands, and see Bucky if he was just standing up.

He can’t see any better from that angle, but that hardly matters as Steve passes out only a second after he reaches his full height. He knocks his head on the hardwood of the deck, hears Chase panicking out loud, and then everything goes dark for Steve.

It’s a much warmer darkness than all the ones before.

It feels different. He can’t say why, only that he feels himself drifting away and he has no strength to swim against the current.

*

Bucky’s fear and pain get caught in his throat on their way out in a scream and Bucky is glad he could stop himself. He doesn’t want to scare the kids— Bex wouldn’t hurt them.

The big question is: is this Beast even Bex anymore?

Bucky has to shoot her through the heart either way but it feels unfair not to know who it is he’s killing. Who’s soul will be shining behind those dark and ancient eyes?

Bex takes some steps forward and though he can feel a rumble in his heart the ground doesn’t shake the puny humans around her as she moves. She storms past them, a behemoth whose mouth opens and she screams. Bucky can hear Bex in it, like the time she busted her knee open jumping off rocks into the cave. Bucky saw it happen, saw her make the jump too late, and saw her land wrong on a sharp rock before smacking into the water. Bucky remembers the snap because he felt it in his own body, not because he heard it— he couldn’t hear anything over the screaming of his sister’s pain.

It’s the same thing now and all Bucky does is put a protective arm in front of Molly and Gert to back them out of Bex’s way. She wants to destroy this place, she wants to annihilate the evil soaked into the foundations of it, she doesn’t care about the ants huddled on the ground stepping out of her path

“Gert, take everyone to the van,” Bucky orders and he tosses the keys to Sam who catches them easy and holds them tight. “You drive them all out.”

There is a loud explosion, and the smell of burnt scales and blood boiling and bubbling, in a scattering of metal and wires, ceramic and plastic shaped heads of animals. It’s striking to see, worse to hear except that the ragtime music stops playing, finally.

The carousel is still spinning though, even as each horse, bear, dragon, hummingbird, tiger, and camel burst into flames and melt like plastic toys in an oven.

Bucky turns to usher Molly and Gert to move along with the group. They don’t move, instead looking accusingly at Bucky.

“You’re coming with us,” Gert insists, like anything to the contrary would be absurd.

“I’ll follow after,” Bucky promises, it’s not a lie because that’s what he will do once he’s helped Bex cross over. He just isn’t sure how likely it is he’ll make it out of here in one piece. “If I don’t though, tell Steve— “

“You’re not allowed to die and abandon us,” Molly snaps at him and Bucky is struck by her conviction, “promise you won’t die.”

“You know I can’t,” Bucky tells her and she shakes her head, Gert following suit.

“That’s the only way we leave you behind,” Molly explains, “swear you won’t die on us and we’ll get in the van with the others.”

Bucky smiles and it’s too painful to be anything but genuine. He nods, begins the words “I prom— “ before a loud screech and bright light fire through the air behind them and burst off like a firework. All eyes are on the spot where the flames are falling and suddenly Bucky can feel Steve’s heart calling out to him.

“Get out of here,” Bucky orders them before he runs in the direction of the flare, eyes pinned to the sky and searching for whatever is coming his way.

A large ball of iron hurls through the air towards him and as it flies downward the inside of it unravels and flaps open, the legs and arms of the diving suit catching on the wind and acting more like a drag net than a parachute. Still, it doesn’t crash right into Bucky’s head so he counts it as a win, even though it lands in the latticework of the Ferris wheel, the limbs getting tangled and knotted. The glass of the helmet glows dark smashed into the broken lightbulbs of the ferris wheel, looking like a black spot turning slowly against the colored lights.

Bex roars and Bucky puts his metal arm in front of his face to shield himself as he runs through the spreading fire.

He’s not sure how he knows, but once Bex has destroyed this place she’ll be gone. The last of her humanity will slip out, Fenoff’s influence and Lykos’s ministrations will scar her body but her mind will be her own again, the ghost of Bex laid to rest and passed on. This is something Bucky owes both of them.

They’ve been through hell and back together already, Bucky doesn’t hesitate to fight his way through fire again for her. One last time.

When he makes it to the Ferris wheel, the ends of his coat seared and his arm running hot, but without much injury. He looks behind himself, just to make sure the girls didn’t follow him. He can’t see anything past the rising tide of fire— and when he’s satisfied that they left, he climbs the ferris wheel platform and holds his hand out until the suit and helmet come down to him.

He punches through the glass with his metal hand and reaches in, finding the isotope small but familiar in his hand, and pulling it out. Bucky steps back, lets the turn of the ferris wheel take the diving suit up and away.

He stares at the isotope and notices that it pulses in his hand, a heartbeat that is familiar. It feels like his and he can’t look away from it, the little bit of darkness beating in his hand and he can’t load it into the gun. He can’t look away from it. He imagines it pulsing inside Bex’s chest, swallowing up the life inside of her— she doesn’t deserve any of this.

Bex crashes into the stilts and wooden planks of the roller coaster directly across from him, at the near other end of the park. Bex is lit up in flame, the green of her scales and feathers a dark contrast. Behind her the sky is a dark blue, no clouds and the moon shining a cold silver on the sea in the distance. If he closes his eyes he can hear the ocean.

Bex roars again and when Bucky opens his eyes it’s to see her rising up on her haunches and ripping the roller coaster apart piece by piece.

The fire is everywhere, and it will engulf all of her until she’s charred bones buried under wood planks and rubble, the iron frame of the roller coaster collapsing until bone and metal look similar in the steady light of the moon.

Bucky loads the isotope into the tranquilizer gun. He waits for a ferris wheel carriage to come his way, and he hops in.

He imagines he’s riding the second hand of a clock as it travels up from six to twelve. His sister will die when Bucky meets twelve. The clock brings him to seven and he steadies the gun in firing position.

He was annoyed with her, for taking his smokes and interrupting his private moment. He just wanted her to go away, and leave him alone to relax. He practically pushed her out the door.

He hits the nine and aims for her, following the target as he moves up so it will be the perfect angle when the time comes.

He lied to their Ma, pretended to be sick just so she wouldn’t ask him to do anything. Just so he could get Bex out of the house. He was selfish and petty. He’s changed, he hopes he’s not that brat anymore.

At the eleven Bucky knows he’s not going to look when he pulls the trigger. He realizes it with a pang in his chest, his heart being squeezed in a vice grip, that he can pull the trigger but he can’t watch it hit.

He’s still the same Bucky, in the end, the one Bex saw smoking in the bathroom, the one she bummed a smoke from, he’s the same Bucky who kissed Steve in the back of his mom’s car and in the closed windows of their bedroom before he ever dared do it in public. He’s the same Bucky who didn’t want to go to the store so late because the dark frightened him, and he didn’t know if Alexander Pierce would be waiting in it to hear his heartbeat again.

He hits twelve, the world stops, he closes his eyes, he pulls the trigger. He hasn’t changed.

“You’re a coward, Bucky Barnes,” she said to him.

She knew him so well.

He opens his eyes when he hits one. She’s still standing, the last of the roller coaster and the rest of the park burning to ash around her, and her eyes are dead set on his.

He feels it beating in her chest, in his chest, and in the dying light of her eyes. She screams, something final and powerful, a way for the soul to forgive the body and move on.

His heart is heavy. Her body crumples but he never sees it hit the ground, the carriage of the ferris wheel descends beneath the black smoke of the fire and in the end he cries, grateful, that he never had to see her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on twitter @madam_michael


	11. Epilouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re an animal. Your husband ever tell you that?” Tandy asks him, popping a bite into her mouth and not getting so much as a crumb out of place.
> 
> “Early and often,” Bucky replies, pulling at the end of the roll and unspooling it halfway before he tears a piece off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh.  
> It's the end.  
> Oh wow I wasn't-  
> Somehow I wasn't expecting this. I haven't prepared a speech or anything.
> 
> Thank you. To all of you, everyone who read this fic, who helped make it amazing. My heart beats for you.

Epilogue

Steve wakes up at dawn because some things can never be shaken from the bones of a man, sometimes the body does what it knows when it doesn’t know what else to do. Movement and rhythm are children of misery, born to keep everything else moving when the heart gives out. It’s the same reason Bucky starts off sleeping every night as the little spoon, but in his sleep he always turns slowly and nestles into Steve’s embrace like a baby chick under its hen. He did it before everything, and he still does it now, and Steve holds off the imaginings of Bucky turning over with no one warm to curl into for seven years.

It’s a comfort, the things that don’t change for them, how Steve wakes up at the dawn and Bucky has to be wrestled out of bed for at least thirty minutes before he concedes to start his day. The routine is different now, they aren’t on opposite schedules anymore. They start off the day together, shuffling around the house and getting breakfast ready for the girls. Last Summer they all worked together to replace the tile in Whinnie’s kitchen to make it how she’d always wanted. It was a family effort, between the two of them and the girls, with just a little guidance from Clint here and there via text messages and snap chats.

It’s going to be a long one today, so much for all of them to do and Steve knows he should start the process of waking Bucky up, of teasing and corraling him out of bed and into a shower, but he wants to watch Bucky sleep for a few more minutes.

Watching Bucky sleep is like a sunrise, how steady his breathing evens out and his eyelids flutter delicately. Steve could— he plans to— watch Bucky wake up every morning and fall asleep every evening until the day he dies and the beauty of it would never tarnish. When Bucky is in a deep sleep his chest will rise and fall to the rhythm of the wind outside and Steve imagines it’s all the air in the world that Bucky inhales and exhales, the howls of wind his lungs steady as waves on shore in and out.

Bucky sleeps with his arms tucked against himself, his hands— one made of metal strong enough to hold an isotope, and the other flesh strong enough to pull a trigger—always cupping close to his chest.

Steve reaches for Bucky’s face and runs the pads of his fingers delicately over his skin. Steve is gentle, he doesn’t _want_ to wake Bucky just yet, but his touch must not be as soft as Steve intends because, with a groan and a grimace, Bucky wakes up.

His eyes are open for fifteen seconds while he squints and blinks at Steve, registering that he’s among the waking world now, and then closes his eyes again and burrows himself into Steve’s chest. Bucky’s face is cold on Steve’s sternum, in a way that tickles enough to make Steve giggle.

“Too early for laughter,” Bucky mutters into Steve’s chest.

“Good morning to you too,” Steve says, stroking Bucky’s hair openly now, loving the tingle of each strand against his skin. Bucky is here. Bucky came back. “Happy Birthday,” Steve adds softly and he feels Bucky’s eyes blink open against his chest.

“Cinnamon rolls,” Bucky replies, and Steve respects the deflection. Enough to not push before Bucky’s ready. It’s too early for it anyway.

“At The Diner,” Steve says, he puts his fingers in the back of Bucky’s hair and rubs little circles into the area, feeling Bucky relax into the affection. “You have to get up, get dressed, and go to work for cinnamon rolls.”

“What idiot had that idea,” Bucky groans, shoving his face as deep into Steve’s chest as it will go and rubbing it vigorously in the area.

Steve doesn’t bother reminding Bucky that it was him, a clever trick against himself to make sure he opens The Diner today. It’s expected to be a full day for all of them. Steve’s glad they made time though, at sunset, for just the two of them to celebrate Bex’s birthday together.

“Gert sleep here last night or at The Cottage?” Bucky asks, turning more onto his side and pulling his face out of Steve’s cleavage.

“I think she and Molly crashed at Tandy’s, actually,” Steve answers. To confirm he unhooks his arms from around Bucky and rolls over in bed to his nightstand and pulls his phone out of the drawer. He finds the text from last night and then tosses the phone back onto the stand. “Yep, they’re going to meet us at The Diner all together, later.”

“How much later?” Bucky sits up in bed, stretches his arms and legs as far out in front of himself as he can and Steve hears something pop. “Like get out of bed now later? Or afternoon later?”

“The New York crowd is supposed to be here around two thirty or so,” Steve doesn’t need to confirm this with his phone, Tandy, Molly, Bucky, and Gert have all been talking about the visitors for weeks. “And they’re gonna be hungry.”

Bucky relaxes and leans back against the headrest, he looks down to Steve and his eyes flicker slowly over Steve’s face, like he’s taking in his own sunset for the morning. “You haven’t even made me coffee yet,” Bucky teases him, pouting, “how could you do this to me? On my _birthday_.”

“And so it begins,” Steve sighs, lifting himself up and out of the bed in one fluid sit up. Steve is barely off the bed when Bucky collapses into the warm space Steve’s left in the covers. Bucky snuggles in like he’s going to sleep another twenty minutes and when Steve turns around to let him Bucky slaps him on his ass.

It’s more of the shock of it, Steve hadn’t been expecting that so early in the morning, that makes him spin around and look at Bucky, mouth agape. It makes Bucky laugh and pull up above the warmth under his covers. “Make it quick, sugar tits,” Bucky says putting his hands behind his head and resting against the backboard.

Steve makes a face at Bucky like he’s allowing “sugar tits” because it’s Bucky’s birthday but there’s a limit that Bucky should be aware of. It’s such a lie; there isn’t a thing Steve wouldn’t let Bucky do if he wanted it bad enough. Steve’s got a few bite marks on his hip bones to prove it— turning into bruises now, he can feel it under his skin.

Steve has the coffee brewing in the next ten minutes and while it works he cleans up a few strangling dishes from the night before and then empties the load inside the dishwasher. Bucky isn’t out before the coffee is done, so Steve pours half an inch of cream into Bucky’s favorite mug— one with a picture of the four of them dressed as different Godzilla monsters, Molly being Mothra, Gert going as Rodan, Bucky as Godzilla and Steve as King Kong— and then puts the coffee in; just the way Bucky likes it.

When Bucky comes out of the bedroom, he’s fully dressed and his coffee is at the perfect temperature. Steve is looking out of the kitchen window, across the yard into the Stein’s backyard and thinks about the backyard camping sleepover they had for Bex and Bucky when they turned twelve. Bucky had fallen asleep before Steve and Bex, and the two of them stayed up until three the next morning just sharing the things quiet friends do when the night is dark and they are vulnerable together.

He misses her. He knows it’s not like it is for Bucky, Steve would never presume to understand how deep their connection was, but she was still Steve’s family, his friend, and it’s hard not to see her in every corner of her childhood home.

But the Barnes house has filled up in the four years since the lighthouse fell, with love and laughter, with new memories and improved childhoods. Molly and Gert took time to heal, they all needed their own space and ways to adjust, but they fell into a routine of family, into a normal and loving life, easy as anything. They’ve had fights and crying fits as well as movie nights and birthday parties. They’ve camped in the living room and they’ve stayed up late hearing the same stories of Steve, Bucky, and the houses on Nightshade and Halloway.

Steve turns away from the kitchen window and leans against the counter. Bucky is sitting at the table, holding his mug with both hands and taking long deep drinks of it with his eyes closed, pausing after each swallow and hum in content. Steve smiles at him and Bucky must feel it because he opens his eyes and looks at Steve. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re cute,” is all Steve replies. Bucky rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself. Steve lifts himself off of the counter and takes his own mug of coffee down from the cupboard— it’s not his favorite but it is the first one he lays a hand on: Clint’s promotional mug from his new job as a producer on The Property Brothers. Clint is even on camera sometimes still, Molly is always sure to point him out when he shows up as she and Tandy both watch the show religiously now. He scoops two teaspoons of sugar into the bottom of his mug and then fills it with coffee. He overdoes it a little and has to gently sip hot, unsugared, coffee off of the top to avoid spilling it. Now Bucky is the one watching him with amused interest. Steve gets the coffee level down half an inch and then pulls a spoon out to stir. “I’m going to take off in a few minutes,” Steve explains taking his seat across the table from Bucky. “I want to get to the docks and take Old Lace out.”

Bucky snorts into his coffee. “Remember when,” Bucky starts, and Steve tries to discourage him by groaning as loud as humanly possible but Bucky talks even louder than that and Steve has to sit through his lumps anyway, “when the girls begged to keep her and you said ‘no’. You made a big fuss about not keeping a pet dinosaur and now look at you.” Steve does not look at himself, he sips his coffee so Bucky can finish. “You’re like those dads online who sleep and cuddle with the pets they didn’t want to get. Gotta hurry to the dock take your baby girl out.”

“She only sleeps in the house in the Winter,” Steve says, barely a defense if one at all, the quirk of Bucky’s eyebrows don’t think so, “and I didn’t assume I would be the one caring for her all the time.”

“You’re an old man,” Bucky sighs lovingly, and leaning on his palm and looking at Steve with warm amusement, “you are The Oldest Man.” Steve gulps down the next half of his coffee mug but still isn’t able to finish it quickly.

“That’s obvious,” Steve agrees, once he’s swallowed his large mouthful of coffee, “I have a pet dinosaur after all.” Steve stands up from the table, leaving the mug down and deciding that he’ll just leave it unfinished.

Steve steps to Bucky’s side of the table and gives him a kiss on the forehead, meant to be followed by a ‘goodbye’ but Bucky doesn’t let him— he stands up quickly and rushes to the cabinet on the far side of the kitchen. “Take some of the coffee with you,” Bucky insists, rushing through the items in the cabinet.

“Don’t fuss, Buck,” Steve requests and Bucky shakes his head and keeps looking.

“It’ll take less than two minutes,” Bucky finds the thermos on the top shelf and pulls it down, rushing it to the coffee maker and pouring his approximation of the amount of sugar Steve likes— Bucky is on the low side. “You should have a full cup at the beginning of a long day,” Bucky sounds like Whinnie when he says stuff like this. Steve sees it come out with the girls all the time, but it’s a special treat when Bucky turns the Winnfred Barnes Charm on Steve.

There are some kindnesses that are genetic, Steve thinks, as he watches his husband pour more coffee into the thermos to top Steve off. Bucky hands it off to Steve with a kiss on the bottom of Steve’s jaw.

“I’ll see you at The Diner later,” Bucky promises, “I’ll save you a cinnamon roll.”

“You’re a dream,” Steve says, and because he needs to get the last kiss in, steals a hard and swift one off of Bucky’s lips before sailing out the door with his thermos.

*

When they moved into The Barnes house, the cottage was cleaned out and renovated to make it velociraptor friendly. It was mostly a trial and error method of rebuilding the space, having to account for things no one is prepared to think about— such as what cleaning solution gets raptor poop off of hardwood floors. It took upwards of a year and a half, the crowd from New York visiting at various stages and in varying groups to help build or redesign the cottage for it’s new inhabitant. Clint was great to have around for construction but Sam helped most of all with moving the space, finding the perfect placement of things from where her food and water dish should be, to an emergency exit in case of fire.

Training Old Lace took about half of the time of the renovation and Steve tries not to think about that; how obedience became a part of her before they met.

He knocks three times on the door, and waits while he listens to Old Lace jump up from her bed, scramble around the cottage in excitement, and then the quiet stillness of her waiting behind the door for him to open it. Steve lifts the latches and unlocks the bolt locks with practiced ease and when he finally opens the door Old Lace preens and caws, the feathers on her neck plumbing in affection. Steve strokes her on the top of her head first and always with soft knuckles rather than his full hand. He hears other birds out on the beach, seagulls squawking mostly, but there will be sandpipers on the shores this morning and Old Lace likes to chase after them.

Old Lace tips her head back and Steve strokes her throat from chin to chest and up again. It’s not a purr, but it is certainly whatever the raptor equivalent of one is.

“You ready to go out? Fish fish?” Steve says, and at that phrase, Old Lace recognizes as ‘meal time’. She looks down at Steve, eyes flashing open, and then furiously rubs her forehead and beak into Steve’s shoulder. She’s trying to both cuddle him and push him out to where the food is.

Steve laughs and steps back to let her out the door. She scuttles out and once her feet hit sand she starts running. Steve steps out after her, closes the door gently, and then begins his steady trek after Old Lace down the beach.

There’s a rule in The Barnes house: talk about it. They don’t pretend it never happened, the seven years with Bucky or all of the people before that. They talk about it, when it comes up, and Steve doesn’t know what to say but he knows how to comfort and he knows how to listen.

They all talk about it. Different parts of the story play differently for each of them: the way Tandy describes Ty’s molotov cocktails as a moment of brilliant genius while Ty blushes and shyly talks about their first kiss. Chase spends a lot of his days recounting being tied to the chair and hearing his father’s voice. He and Sam talk about that, low and together, the way they were pulled into another place and how there wasn’t pain so much as a horrible discomfort— like their bones were iron and the rest of them helium, trying to pull up and away from a place they weren’t really in. The worst part, Sam had said, was somewhere inside of them, the part trembling as if to break and the struggle of holding it together.

Sam talks about Clint’s Mirror Maze Massacre like he’s describing a poem and Clint always follows it up with Sam’s Miami Vice rescue. Kate likes to interrupt at that point, and talk about how ridiculous Clint looked scrambling away from the beast on the beach. There’s levity in how they talk about it but not always, some moments are filled with crying, or anger, and others with a silence because nothing _can_ be said. Steve has started to accept those and even find comfort in them, so long as Bucky is near.

Old Lace runs to the dock and dives like a heron off the end of it and Steve strolls onto the pier and hops into his boat. He takes a seat on the port side and sips the still warm coffee from his thermos while he watches Old Lace dive and rise, the tail of the fish she’s eating flopping as it disappears down her throat. The only thing Steve sees as they slide down her gullet. She’ll eat her fill and Steve will let her swim and play before he puts her back for the day.

There’s a way the rising sun hits Old Lace, how it makes a silhouette of her in the light, that makes Steve think of Becca. She loved to swim. Steve used to see her at these docks in the morning, as he made his way to The Diner for breakfast after being up all night. She was at home in the water, even if it was cold. That was a routine for them, sometimes Steve would even wait on the Pier for her, sitting on his little boat that he never took out, while she finished up her laps for the morning. He let her keep towels and a change of clothes on the boat, anything she needed to make her mornings easier.

Sometimes they’d swing by the cottage together to grab Bucky, but only on mornings when he didn’t work. Otherwise Steve or the both of them would grab Bucky a cup of the coffee flavor of the day and whatever to-go dessert was in the glass case and walk it to the docks just in time for Bucky to take a breakfast break.

It was small, and lovely, and he cries, just a little, knowing it will never happen again— admitting that it won’t. Becca will never climb out of the pier, shake her long hair in his face to get him wet until he tosses a towel at her, and walk him to breakfast. Steve doesn't’ remember all the things they ever talked about, they were little, he knows that. From dreams they had had the night before, or something Becca read in one of her city papers she subscribed to. Sometimes Becca would bring one of her cosmo magazines and make Steve take the quizzes with her.

Steve corrects himself; it’s not fair to say she made him. He liked them, and would ask for her to bring them once a month when he knew a new issue had come in. Steve laughs at that, and the sound is more choked than he intends— he realizes he’s been crying for at least a few minutes, his face suddenly registering the cold on the path of his tear tracks.

He’ll remember her like that, always, fork dripping with syrup soaked french toast while she points a finger, wrinkled from her morning swim, to Steve’s result on a quiz, laughing at his reactions and sometimes even arguing the result just for the fun of it.

Long, brown, wet, curly hair wrestled into a bun and dripping on the booth behind her. At the end of every meal she always plucked up a napkin or three to wipe the drip up. She ate there with him most mornings even though she’d be coming back to The Diner in just a handful of hours to take over for Melissa and work her shift.

Old Lace comes out of the water and shakes herself dry, her body rolling with the twirl of her feathers, giving no care for how wet Steve gets as a result. He wipes his face clean and climbs out of the boat, bringing the towel with him. Old Lace presents herself to be dried, purring and rolling her head into the warm towel and Steve’s hands.

She’s eaten her fill of fish until evening, most likely a small group of them will be coming back here after the New York crowd arrives and eats. She’ll not want for attention this afternoon and it might be enough to wear her out until dinner.

Steve starts walking back towards her cottage and gives a little whistle for her to follow. She trots up next to him and walks by his side all the way home.

*

Bucky always loved The Diner. Bex loved it too. They fought over who would get a job at the place when they turned hireable age. Their mother tried to reason with them, saying they could both work there, they argued they’d get sick of each other. The opposite ended up happening— they were half of the staff which meant they were always working opposite shifts. Bucky took up working at the docks once he graduated and eventually had to let The Diner job go in favor for full time and benefits at the docks. Bucky stopped by The Diner everyday for lunch though, just to catch up with Bex while she worked the long shift.

Bucky thinks about the nights he couldn’t sleep, or ones where he’d stayed out with Steve all night, and Bex would have the opening shift. He followed her around The Diner while she put down chairs, counted out the money, readied the tables. He helped her, of course, without being asked and like everything they did it felt natural and easy to do it together. They always had a tendency to move that way— with each other, mirroring, and knowing. Something internal and rhythmic like their heartbeats.

Now that Bucky owns The Diner it’s his job to open up every morning, and he always thinks of those times opening with Bex when he does. If he were a braver man he’d talk outloud to her while he opened, but it hurts his heart not to hear a reply, to talk into the dark and only feeling coldness.

It’s always a little melancholy at first, maybe a little eerie in that way that dark and empty places always feel, until the lights flicker on and the place becomes brighter with soft blue booths and well mopped black and white tile floors. With the coffee brewing, the smell filling the room around him, and the soft sounds of the nearest radio station, the place is alive and warm. He feels Bex there in a different way, a way that makes him happy.

Tandy is off shift for the day, technically so is Bucky, so is anyone who puts in hours at The Diner because it’s being closed down for their private party today. But someone has to cook for that private party, and if there’s one thing Bucky hates it’s Tandy working on her days off. He knows she’s planning on coming in early, maybe trying to catch him off guard, all so she can work off the energy she’s producing in anticipation for Ty’s return. When she tries to walk in at eight the door is locked, she pushes on it a couple of times and Bucky waves his hand at her, pointing it in the direction of her house and commanding, “You get out of here! You’re not working!”

Tandy rolls her eyes. “God. I just want a cup of coffee,” She shouts back at him through the door and for emphasis rattles it, “And a cinnamon roll.”

“We’re closed,” Bucky says, “private party.”

“Yeah, that I’m invited to,” she fires back at him, “so let me in.”

“You don’t work here anymore,” Bucky reminds her, “you’re running away to New York, you’re kidnapping my baby niece.”

“Boss come on,” Tandy whines, “I had to watch you ice them last night and I didn’t even get to lick the spoon. Just lemme in.”

Bucky takes pity on her, not that he’d really keep her locked out until later this afternoon, but he had forgotten about the cinnamon rolls and he feels kind towards her since she reminded him. Bucky clicks the door to unlock and heads back behind the counter to get her a mug and pour her the first cup of the day. He makes a note to get another pot started once he’s served her.

She dances inside and the little bell rings to announce her. She trots up to the counter and Bucky pointedly puts the cup of coffee at the seat farthest from the counter hatch so she can’t sneak back and serve herself when he steps away. She sits, smiling at him like his attitude amuses her and he figures that it most likely does.

“You going crazy without your boyfriend?” Bucky asks, pulling the carton of half and half out of the fridge below the counter and putting it in Tandy’s reach.

“I miss him like crazy,” Tandy says, accepting the offered half and half and dumping too much of it into the mug “but I’m not climbing the walls or nothing. I’m excited to see him.” She always overestimates it, and as she leans forward to sip the water level down Bucky wets a washcloth in anticipation and waits to see where the liquid spills. “It was kind of sad having a final girls night, though.”

Remarkably, today, Tandy doesn’t spill a drop. She puts the mug down gently and smiles at him with triumph. “Molly said she wanted to go with Gert to check on Old Lace. They’re probably about twenty minutes behind me.”

“How was the sleepover?”

“Molly didn’t drink or do drugs or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” She sounds a little defensive, but Bucky doesn’t fault her for it.

“She’s eighteen, I trust her to make good decisions about her life,” Bucky reassures both her and a little bit himself “And I trust you,” Bucky adds, worried she’ll think he doesn’t mean it since he didn’t list it first. She eases his concerns with a smile, something small like a handkerchief serving as a white flag. “You want that cinnamon roll?” Bucky offers and Tandy nods in excitement. “Stay here,” Bucky orders her, a gentle reminder to not clean anything or start wrapping silverware.

Bucky goes into the back kitchen, pulls the rolls from the fridge and lays them on the cold slab of the kitchen. He removes two rolls, one for each of them, and heats them for exactly twelve seconds to bring them to perfect temperature.

When Bucky comes back into the dinning area Tandy is sitting back down in her barstool, the remote to the TV in hand, and starts to flip through the channels until she hits the Home and Garden Network. Bucky sets the two plates down, and the clattering noise pulls Tandy’s attention back to the counter. She turns in her chair, picks up the dessert fork on the saucer, and digs into the breakfast slowly.

Bucky likes to eat his a little messy, getting icing all over the place, sticky fingers, the smell of cinnamon on his hands for the next hour, Bucky loves the kinetic experience of eating a cinnamon roll.

“You’re an animal. Your husband ever tell you that?” Tandy asks him, popping a bite into her mouth and not getting so much as a crumb out of place.

“Early and often,” Bucky replies, pulling at the end of the roll and unspooling it halfway before he tears a piece off.

The commercial segment ends on the TV and Property Brothers comes on screen. Tandy turns in her chair to watch the show, the episode is halfway done so Bucky only idly pays attention to the renovation project that Thor is working on with producer and occasional onscreen contractor for the show: Clint. The two seem to be in a paint fight. Bucky often wonders how much of Clint and Sam’s individual jobs is natural on screen chemistry and which is produced specifically for ratings. Bucky licks some icing off of his thumb.

“Have you seen this one?” Bucky asks her, still watching as she shakes her head.

“I’ve seen the middle of it but it’s a rerun. Thor still has his man bun so this is probably two season ago.”

Bucky tries not to laugh, at least not in a mean way, at Tandy’s enthusiasm. There’s nothing but icing left on his saucer so Bucky picks it up and licks as much of it straight from the plate as he can.

Before the next commercial break Bucky is already pulling out another cinnamon roll for himself to put in the microwave and warm up. Now that the ads are on Tandy turns around in the stool and gives Bucky her attention again.

“You’re gonna cry, right?” Tandy says, voice teasing and a little mocking, “I bet you and Steve both cry.”

“We’ve still got a few days,” Bucky says, “don’t make me think about it so early.”

“Is the empty nest starting already?” Tandy asks and pops another bite into her mouth. She’s still only half way done with it. She stops to take a sip of her coffee. “You should redesign a room in the house or something. Get a project to keep you busy.”

“I run a business,” Bucky replies, “I am busy.” Bucky leans back and picks up the carafe of Texas Pecan flavor and pours himself a mug of it. He notes Tandy is low and offers it to her. She covers the top of her mug and shakes her head. “Probably keep their rooms the same,” Bucky adds, noting that until now he hadn’t given much thought to it, what they were going to do now that Molly was moving out of the house and Gert in an undecided living situation. With Molly in New York it might be just around the corner that Gert moves out too, maybe in with Chase somewhere. “Maybe we should move to New York.”

Tandy chuckles, amused at how fussy Bucky gets about his nieces, and slides her empty plate towards him. “She’s gonna call and text you all the time,” Tandy says, there’s something easing in it, it seems more likely when Tandy, something of an objective viewpoint, says Molly will miss him.

Bucky knows Molly will miss him but he is now forced to consider what he’s going to do in between calls and texts. Maybe he should update their family phone plan, give them all more minutes and data so they can check in more frequently.

The little bell rings and Molly and Gert step inside. Molly is taller now, and although she still owns her little pink cap she doesn’t wear it much. Molly has recently gotten very into handkerchiefs and bandanas and today she has a paisley pink one tying her hair back.

Gert’s hair is a darker shade of purple than she’s had before; she took the plunge and got a pixie undercut on New Years, Molly happily offering to do it in their backyard. Gert’s wearing one of Steve’s old navy blue jackets that’s big on her, but she wears it well.

They step into The Diner and Bucky feels it again, the way he always did when Bex turned on the light inside and made the place warm and bright. They smile at him and he smiles back.

“Who wants coffee?” Bucky offers as they approach the counter and take seats on opposite sides of Tandy. Molly sits on the side closest to the TV once she sees the Home and Garden Network logo in the corner of the screen.

“Me, please,” Molly says, flashing a smile at Bucky and then looking quickly back to the screen just in time to see Loki Odinson talking up a three and two in the Upper East Side. “Which season is this one?” Molly asks.

Tandy, who is watching the screen now again, answers, “I’m figuring last year’s. Judging by Thor’s hair.”

“I might have seen this one,” Molly says, curiously watching the screen and looking for something she recognizes in the episode.

Bucky puts two mugs down, one in front of Gert and the other before Molly, of the Texas Pecan and slides the creamers over to Molly and the sugar to Gert. The girls dress their mutual mugs to their own degrees and then slide and swap the sugar and cream when they’re done.

Gert likes more sugar than cream, Molly is the opposite. Bucky takes out two more saucers and serves up cinnamon rolls.

Tandy’s phone buzzes first but Gert’s and Molly’s follow suit. The latter two don’t bother looking at their screens yet, instead Tandy is the only one who pulls her phone out and says, “Group text. Ty says they’re leaving the city now. Should be here in a few hours.”

“Right on schedule,” Bucky serves his cinnamon rolls to his nieces. Gert has only been mildly interested in Property Brothers, so when food is offered up it becomes her new focus of attention. Molly at least waits for the commercial break to start before she turns away.

“I have seen this one,” Molly concludes and takes a long drink of her coffee, wincing as it burns her tongue a little. Bucky prepares a glass of ice water for her.

“What road are they taking?” Bucky asks. “Who’s driving?”

“Don’t know,” Tandy replies, “and probably Sam.”

“There’s road work on Route 62, do they know that? They need to take the access road instead, it’ll be faster even with the slower speed limit.”

“I just read it to you,” Tandy says, sounding a little annoyed at Bucky’s traffic tangent, “you have all the information I have. I can give you no more updates.”

“I would have liked to have been invited into the group text,” Bucky says, sounding purposefully jilted. “No old folks allowed, I see.”

“Pretty much,” Tandy says and Gert snickers and nudges her in the ribs. Tandy laughs like she doesn’t know what she did wrong and snickers, “What? He guessed it.”

“Where’s Steve?” Gert asks, deciding to change the subject rather than dwell on it, “did he go feed Old Lace already?”

“He should be finishing up soon,” Bucky says, “we’ll all go back out there to see her after lunch.”

“I wanted to get used to meeting him out there,” Gert sighs, “I didn’t wake up in time.”

“In your defense we were up pretty late,” Molly says, laughing like she’s remembering something amusing from their late night antics. Molly catches Bucky’s quizzical gaze and she blushes, embarrassed, and says, “I mean like ten thirty. Playing Uno.”

“Very convincing,” Bucky says, breaking into a grin and noting how Molly’s shoulders relax and she smiles along with him. Molly unrolls the cinnamon roll and just slices it off piece by piece, as if going down a line, and eating one little forkful at a time. She leaves most of the icing untouched on the plate, scooching it over to Gert when she’s done.

“How’d you leave things with your boy?” Tandy asks Gert, sliding Molly’s excess icing saucer the last little bit towards Gert.

Gert, like Bucky, scoops up the excess icing with her fingers and licks them clean. “He said he’s not moving into his old bedroom at his mom’s.” Gert replies, “And that’s as far as we’ve gotten on the whole thing.”

“You can always move to New York,” Molly reminds her, “I’m sure Ty and Tandy can make room for the both of you.”

“Chase says he doesn’t want to be in the city for a while,” Gert sighs. “I don’t know. We have a lot to figure out still. We’ve got a few months but he’s going to have to start looking for work soon.”

Bucky can feel Steve coming from down the street. Bucky walks out from behind the counter and steps out onto the stoop, looking towards the beach and seeing Steve approach, a dark figure in the distance. Steve is watching his feet as he walks, Bucky remembers he used to be pretty clumsy as a kid. Steve was always running head first into everything, every fight, with no grace and no god-given sense of self preservation, often falling and hurting himself. Bucky wonders when Steve started watching his steps— it’s hard to remember the older years, the ones when all of them were alive and together, their mothers and Bex. Bucky is still getting memories back, and there’s some things he knows are lost to time forever— things he forgot and things that were cut out of him because they weren’t important. It’s hardest to remember the year after Bex died, the three hundred and sixty-five days before Bucky would be stolen too. Bucky doesn’t think that was Pierce, he thinks that grief is like soap, something that slides memories off and away. Just motions being moved through so the body doesn’t rust. Bucky thinks that even without the lab, he wouldn’t remember much from that year that he doesn't remember now.

Steve looks up, is close enough now on the sidewalk that Bucky can see him smile, tred getting quicker, bringing him closer to Bucky faster.

It makes Bucky’s heart feel light, that even though there’s no hurry, that they just woke up to each other a mere two hours ago, Steve is still always rushing to see more of Bucky.

They have time now. Not as much as they’re owed, but Bucky knows that someday, long before either of them die, they’ll be paid their due.

It’s a truth in his heart. An uncanny knowing.

*

When Ty was six and Billy was twelve their dad introduced them to Zorro. Ty had caught a cold and it only took twelve hours for Billy to catch it too. They hand to spend all day resting on the coach with the humidifier and neti pot in close proximity. That’s when their dad took out the tapes and they had a marathon.

Ty and Sam usually switch off driving unless it’s a group trip. More accurately: if it’s any group car ride that Clint is on. Ty understands that it’s expected that the significant other gets shotgun, but Ty thinks that it would at least be polite of Clint or Sam to offer to be his hands on the radio. Ty, Kate, and Chase are stuffed in the back like three kids squeezed in on their road trip to disneyland. They’re tightly packed in with Ty in the middle. He is the one with the most advantage, the closest reach towards the radio, and yet he is still too far away.

Ty reaches out again and taps Clint on the shoulder until the other man turns around. “Please don’t ask me if we’re there yet,” Clint says.

“We’re not,” Chase answers on Ty’s left, he’s looking out the window, watching the scenery like he knows it. The map sits in the driver’s side door, folded up neatly as the day it was sold, tucked next to Sam and unused for the past couple of trips back to McDunn. Sam is starting to know the drive without effort. Maybe they come back here too much.

Billy was still young enough to indulge Ty in playing pretend, they had Zorro sword fights in the backyard up until Billy turned fourteen and suggested they do quiet sit down reading for fun instead. Billy taught Ty how to use the library catalog, how to find books and do research. Billy got him a card and sat beside Ty in case he needed help with a word that was too big for him. Sam had laughed when he heard how young Ty was when he started reading the original pulp Zorro novels. Ty hasn’t read them in a long time but he doesn’t recall them being particularly spicy— the content was more gory sword fights and horrifying dungeons.

“Can we have the radio?” Ty asks, and he’s twenty-two years old, he and Sam have worked together now longer than Clint and Sam were on Rare Birds together, but he still feels like a little kid asking a grown up to turn the radio on.

Clint smiles and, without any other response reaches forward and turns the radio on. He hesitates afterwards, his finger holding over the on/off button before he looks back at Ty.

Ty nods, “It’s on. Can you change it to 106.7 FM?” Clint nods again and his fingers go towards the radio dial and stop again as he realizes he won’t be able to note the channel numbers on the broken digital screen of the car radio.

“I got it,” Sam says, gently tapping his knuckles against Clint’s, the gesture warm and lingering, before he begins to switch through the channels looking for Ty’s station. “We should be there in about twenty to thirty more minutes. Ty can you text everyone and give a heads up?”

Ty nods, picking his phone up out of the cup holder where he put it earlier. His battery had gone down to fifty percent and he didn’t want to kill it before they got to McDunn. It takes a few minutes for it to power back on for him and after it loads he gets six new messages at once in the group chat, mostly of the McDunn gang around The Diner eating cinnamon rolls and hanging decorations for their arrival. Ty flips through these for a little while before he remembers he got his phone out for a purpose and shoots an “almost there” text to everyone.

He puts his phone back in the cup holder. “If Barnes asks about the access road,” Sam announces to everyone in the car listening. Clint has taken out his phone now and is texting someone a very long message. Ty glances at the screen and catches the snake icon next to the contact name and figures quickly that Clint is composing a producer frustration text to his employee.

Ty doesn’t catch what he’s supposed to say to Bucky if he asks about the access road— it’s hard for Ty to type and listen at the same time, and whatever petty argument the two are having Ty isn’t interested in being in the middle of it. Tandy sends a picture back of a half eaten tray of cinnamon rolls with the warning: _better hurry._

He laughs softly and Chase taps him with his elbow and Ty leans over and shows the picture. Chase smiles too and leans in when Ty switches his front facing camera on and aims it at their faces, pressing at awkward angles to fit into the screen.

They get a good one, which is to say one where they both look a little ridiculous. Just after Ty presses “send” Kate notices what they’re doing and holds her hand out. “Do you want me to get it?” 

Ty pulls himself back into a proper sitting position, shaking his head “no” at Kate, and turns his phone off again. “Cinnamon rolls are almost gone,” Ty announces to the car.

“There’s going to be cake there too, right?” Sam asks, “that’s too much sugar all at once. Cinnamon rolls then cake.” Sam helped Ty write his final exams papers, taught him how to cite sources and check facts. He taught Ty how to be critical but fair, helped Ty hone his strengths and recognize places he could improve. Sam, and after they moved in together, Clint made sure Ty ate a home cooked meal at least twice a week. There were times in New York where Ty had no idea what he wanted to say, but knew he needed to talk and Sam was just a phone call away. It wasn’t like Tandy or his parents couldn’t comfort him— there are just some things that only Sam really seemed to understand; things Ty only trusted Sam to hear.

“There’s supposed to be ice cream, too,” Chase adds, rolling his shoulders back and popping some of the muscles there.

“There’s an entree, right? Surely we’re gonna eat something with a vitamin in it first,” Sam asks, making eye contact with Ty in the rear view mirror just in time to see the kid shake his head.

Clint growls in frustration and then shoves his cellphone into the glove compartment, shutting it with angry force. “He acts like he’s in charge,” Clint grumbles, gesturing at the shut glove box. “Sif warned me he’d be like this, you know?”

“I know,” Sam says, watching the road, his left hand steady on the steering wheel while his right hand signs his words; four fingers double tapping his temple.

“He wants his own intern. As in one separate from Thor, but only if Thor doesn’t have one of his own.”

Ty starts to answer before he catches himself and taps Clint on the shoulder to get him to turn around first. When he turns, Ty says, “How does that even work?”

Clint looks angry, not at Ty, it’s more like he’s glaring at the idea of a person just to the left and behind Ty. “There would be one intern for both of them _and_ Loki gets his own personal intern.”

“That’s one and a half interns,” Ty says. Besides every sword fighting scene, Tandy’s favorite in the Zorro movies are the dancing. Ty swears they did the Catherine Zeta Jones scene so many times he probably still has muscle memory of the steps. Both Antonio’s _and_ Katherine’s because sometimes he and Tandy wanted to switch parts.

Clint snaps his fingers and points at Ty, “See? You get it. Math.” Clint turns around to face the right way in his seat. Ty leans back in his. He knows it hurts Clint’s back to be turned around all the time. Possibly though Clint just wants to stop pondering Loki Odinson and keep him locked in the glove compartment until Clint’s vacation is over.

Ty notices that he and Chase have the same physical reactions the closer they get into town, the way the winding streets look familiar but slightly changed since they were last here. They sit up straighter, they peer out the same window, and as they pull into The Diner parking lot both of them are tapping their fingers and bouncing their knees in excitement.

Chase is the first one out, he rushes the fastest, opening his door and spilling out of it before he’s even unbuckled himself, causing him to become somewhat tangled and needing Ty’s help to get out. Once Ty clicks the buckle loose and Chase wrestles free of his bounds, the guy jumps out and keeps the door open for Ty. All of this before Sam’s even killed the engine. Ty is the second one out, glancing behind him to make sure he doesn’t shut the door on Kate before pushing it closed.

Gert and Molly were already outside when Sam pulled in and they’re doing their best to make it over to Chase but they’re impeded by how hard they’re laughing at Chase. Tandy comes running out of The Diner in a flash, Ty swears that a gust of wind coming off of her blows the others’ hair back. He opens his arms just in time to catch her, to return her embrace. She hugs him just tight enough, her face tucked over his shoulder, and he sways a little, something like dancing— he missed her so much.

In the time they spend whispering greetings to each other, everyone else exits the car and gets their reunions over with. Only Steve and Bucky have remained inside The Diner but once everyone starts to file in, the two come out from behind the counter to hug everyone in turn. Sam, Clint, and Kate go in, but Gert, Molly, and Chase linger to wait for Ty and Tandy’s private moment to pass before they start greeting him.

Ty smiles watching Sam move things around inside The Diner, having a mock fight with Bucky about where things should go. Ty loves Anthony Hopkins’ performance in Zorro. There’s a reason the second one is terrible, multiple reasons really, but Ty knew it wasn’t going to be up to snuff when Anthony was off of the cast list. Ty loves him in that scene though, with the circles and _“[he] doesn’t exist until I say he does”_. It’s an important relationship in the film, the training of a protégé— someone older looking out for him.

Tandy and Chase don’t hug but they have this weird rock-em-sock-em robots punching thing that they do that must serve as a platonic kind of handshake. Molly and Gert hug Ty together, Molly making a funny cawing noise as she squeezes him tighter.

“You guys took forever to get here,” Molly complains after she and Gert drop the embrace. “We’ve had reruns all day.”

Tandy takes Ty’s hand. Gert opens the door and holds it for the rest of them. “She’s been wired all night,” Gert explains.

“She’s been packed all week,” Tandy adds as they all file into The Diner. It’s strange for Ty to look around it, see a place that was the backdrop for so much of his childhood, changed not by time but by the warmth of the room.

“So what?” Molly says in her own defense, “I’m excited. In two days I’m going to be _living_ in _New York_.” Ty can’t remember there being so many people here at once other than these gatherings. It’s nice to see it, like it was always meant to house safety and family and it was easier now that it wasn’t just him and Tandy trying to fill it up by themselves anymore.

“We need to make time to do the campus tour,” Ty says,directing it at Molly and Tandy but mostly to remind himself, “I got to show you all the good spots that only the seniors know.”

“Class schedule, too,” Tandy suggests, “that campus is a nightmare, Molls, you need to do a few dry runs before the semester starts.”

Sam is pleased to find that Bucky’s been cooking sandwiches and wraps, even has fixings for salad available, so that there can be some pretense of eating something that isn’t ninety percent processed sugar. Bucky is serving Sam a sandwich after they’re all situated, but Ty goes right for a corner slice of cake.

“Are we supposed to sing?” Chase asks the room. “It’s Bucky’s birthday, right?”

“Oh please don’t,” Bucky says, not meaning a word of it, standing up and putting on a paper crown, “that would be so embarrassing. I don’t want any attention, please.” Bucky pulls candles out from his apron pocket, suggesting to Ty that they’ve been there quite a while, and a lighter that he proceeds to put onto the cake and ignite. “Don’t make a fuss.” It’s not easy for Bucky to put his candles in a cake that already has four pieces cut and served out of it, but he manages.

Steve is laughing the hardest but Molly is a close second. Ty’s the only one steady enough to start them off on the song and Tandy joins him immediately— the others chime in and Bucky begins to wave at them all like he’s actual royalty admiring his subjects.

He takes a dramatic pause before he blows them out and for some reason, Ty’s not sure why but he’s included, everyone applauds him. Maybe, Ty thinks, it’s to keep the ghosts away, too warm for a chill from the graveyard to blow in.

The serving of cake and other foods continues and Ty is pretty sure that will be the last mention of whose birthday it is today. At least for all of them together— sometimes celebration needs to be done in small doses, only so much can be handled at a time.

“I texted your mom,” Tandy says, low to Ty so she doesn’t interrupt any other conversations. Ty has a momentary panic before he remembers that his phone is fine, just in the car, and that Tandy remembered to text his parents.

“Thanks,” He says, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close, “my battery is dead basically.” Ty finds it hard to pick a favorite scene of a movie he loves so much— but that’s the beauty of a movie is that he can love every part of it in different ways. He loves the dancing scenes with Tandy and he loves the training montage with Anthony Hopkins. He loves the sword fights, the carriage chases, and the quieter moments of beauty and contemplation. He loves the scenes with Zorro’s brother, and the way Zorro fights for his brother’s memory. 

“I figured. You were snapchatting me for the first hour of the drive,” Tandy teases him. “I told her we’d be done here in maybe another hour? Then we’d head to hers for the rest of the night.”

Ty tries not to make a big deal out of it, something tells him it might jinx it, but he likes the way Tandy and his mother work together now, more than when Ty first moved off to New York. Tandy had to get used to being in McDunn without Ty. They both found it a little easier to be apart from each other once they reached out and opened up to other people. There’s no connection like the one he and Tandy have with each other, but before they felt like two chaotic stars, caught in the gravity of one another, destined to implode if they couldn’t be pulled apart. It’s better now, there’s less pressure closing in on them, now that they’ve learned to orbit outside of each other.

He squeezes her hand, “I can’t wait to wake up next to you in New York,” he whispers. She blushes and stuffs a piece of cake into her mouth. He thinks that’s all she’s going to say on the matter, a “shut up” mumbled through cake and buttercream icing, but after she clears her throat with some water she whispers back, “Me too.”

He feels like they’re ready now.

*

After they’ve all had their fill at The Diner and finished helping Bucky clean, they head to Old Lace’s cottage, with the exception of Ty and Tandy, who leave for Ty’s parent’s house.

Molly walks from the backyard of Old Lace’s cottage to the bottom of the trail, the stoney steps that lead up to the charred remains of hell on earth. Molly doesn’t take another step further, although she wants to, because she’s afraid. She had hoped she wasn’t afraid anymore, moving to New York City, starting college, joining a sorority, these were all very brave things that would be hard for a coward to do.

But it’s hard not to feel like a coward when she can’t even lift one foot and put it in front of the other. She hasn’t been back there since the night it burned down. She glares into the dark path, getting spookier the more light that they lose to the evening. It’s been four years, she should be able to go back.

Everyone is inside the cottage, some on the front porch chatting while Old Lace fetches and shows off her new tricks. Molly wonders if any of them have noticed she’s gone and then the answer is confirmed when Gert walks up next to her, her feet stopping at the exact line that Molly’s are. She wraps her arms around Molly’s shoulders, squeezing her in by the side.

Molly leans into it— it’s nice to be hugged so tightly when frightened, even though it makes her feel even more childish for not taking the trail up to the fairgrounds, for not even taking one more step. “Here there be monsters,” Molly says.

 _Here there be cowards_ , she keeps to herself.

“You don’t ever have to go back there,” Gert says, pressing her nose into Molly’s temple and talking into her hair which is both affectionate enough to comfort Molly but also silly enough to make her smile.

“I thought I’d be brave enough by now,” Molly admits and it feels like a stone falling out of her throat, from the pit of her stomach where it weighed her down.

“You are brave enough,” Gert assures her, “you’re exactly brave enough, Molls.” Gert turns her head and looks into the dark path. “It won’t do anything for you anyway. It doesn’t prove anything.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asks, turning her head to see her sister. Molly’s going to miss her so much. She’s not a baby, she refuses to act like a baby, but it’s so easy when it’s just the two of them.

Gert drops one arm from Molly’s shoulders so she can pull her little sister in for a different kind of hug, one Molly has to nuzzle into but feels right once she’s there. 

Molly hears the back porch door swing open, the hinges are squeaky and they should oil it soon, and then shut. Molly glances back and watches as Kate joins them, holding three cans of soda in a triangle formation.

“Three cokes,” Kate says, offering them up to Gert and Molly, “you two aren’t about to walk up to that death trap are you?”

“Is that why you’re out here?” Molly asks. Can’t doesn’t put up a front; she cracks her soda open and nods.

She takes a small sip from it and adds, “I was considering it, anyway.” Kate takes a seat at the invisible line that she doesn’t cross either, then Molly and Gert take a seat next to her. “It doesn’t help how creepy it looks at night.”

“It probably doesn’t even look like anything,” Molly reasons, opening her own soda and taking a couple large gulps of it. She’s thirstier than she realized. She’s going to be up all night now. “Uncle Bucky has been back up. Steve too, a few times. They say it’s just flat land. Everything is all burned up.”

“They haven’t gone down to the lab though, have they?” Kate’s question is answered by the other girls’ silence. “Not worth the hazards, I imagine.”

“It’s just a graveyard,” Gert shrugs, “it’s just a place. Walking through a graveyard isn’t any braver than walking through any other place.”

“Have you gone up?” Molly asks. Gert could lie but she doesn’t. She shakes her head because honesty is something they’ve agreed they need. “Do you think you ever will?”

“I don’t know. I’m not planning on it. It felt like it might mean something for a while, that it might be therapeutic.” 

“I don’t think I deserve anymore memories of that place,” Kate adds, “I don’t think any of us do. Not either of you especially.”

“It’s like that thing Chase said,” Gert says, “How all the bad stuff lives in the body.”

“Everything bad that happened is inside of us,” Molly agrees.

Bucky cries sometimes, over his sister. Molly can hear it from the top of the stairs if she stands still and quiet to listen. It’s not every night, and it’s less frequent then when they first started living in the house on Halloway. Bucky calls himself a coward. He weeps and he says, the same way every time:

_You’re a coward, Bucky Barnes._

He must hear it inside, playing on a loop, something he can’t stop so he just has to cry through it. Molly knows how it feels— little prayers and praises that feels like the scratch of a record on the player.

Bucky is no coward. It’s just that being brave can be painful. “We face that every day,” Molly says, “That’s brave.” Molly remembers how painful and terrifying it was to tell Dale and Staci she didn’t know them; that they were strangers.

Testifying against them was painful too. She had to testify with them in the room. All Molly wanted to do was cry but she didn’t. That was harder, worse than some burned down ruin sitting condemned above the sea.

She can see Kate out of the corner of her eye, smiling next to them, turning the soda tab on her can around idly. Gert puts her arm around her sister again and Molly curls into it.

There are no cowards here.

*

The sun sets on Bucky and Becca’s birthday at 6:46 p.m. and Steve and Bucky walk the path down the shore, together, to where the lighthouse stood.

Bucky’s steps are heavier than Steve’s— his heart always too full from grief on Bex’s birthday. Steve slides his hand into Bucky’s coat pocket and laces their fingers together. It’s bulky and awkward until Bucky pulls both of their hands out of the coat and walks with Steve, swinging their hands in the middle.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Steve asks. Bucky’s smile goes a little sad.

“I could feel her before,” Bucky admits, “pulling at my heart. Telling me to find her.” Steve thinks of the way Bucky looked in the moonlight, cold under the shadow of the lighthouse, eyes closed but staring out to sea like Bex could come to him if he only waited.

If he only gave her a beacon to swim towards.

“I think I severed that,” Bucky’s voice breaks in his throat.

Ships don’t sail to McDunn. Even less now than before. One thing Steve’s learned since working at the docks is that sailors have an uncanny knowing of ghosts and curses. Ships didn’t pass by before because they could sense the haunting in the very bedrock of the town— now they don’t pass by because their superstitions were confirmed.

They come upon the place where the lighthouse stood. Steve sits down first and then Bucky, facing the same direction, settles himself in front of Steve, between his legs. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls them in together.

Bucky’s voice chokes up and he squeezes Steve’s hand, “it hurt like hell Steve. You’ve no idea.” Steve doesn’t know how it felt for Bucky, how he lost Bex in a completely different way than how Steve has lost anyone. “But it felt like cutting a weight, too,” Bucky adds, softly. “Is it wrong? That she doesn’t weigh on me anymore?”

Bex _does_ weigh on Bucky, that’s something they will always carry in their hearts, but Steve understands what Bucky means. He means it doesn’t pain him as much anymore. Bucky’s heart is light enough to balance the scales— he doesn’t need to carry Becca’s in him too.

Bucky worries it’s too much like forgetting her.

“Think of it like a foghorn,” Steve suggests, “the sound dies, but the ships hear it. The sound is ephemeral and intangible but so is the fog, so is the light from the lighthouse.”

“It’s like a scream,” Bucky says, and it’s not a correction but an agreement. “It’s real even after it’s gone.”

There’s quiet between them, and all Steve feels is the way their hearts steadily fall into synch with each other. They share it, an uncanny knowing, that they will never be separated again.

The lighthouse and foghorn were never rebuilt. Ships don’t sail near McDunn nowadays— monsters lurk in the waves there. In the end, it was time for the thing to go. The world had outgrown it, and it sat too lonely on the shore for so long.

The lighthouse faded out like a rolling fog, like feathers tipping scales, like a scream of grief into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on twitter @madam_michael


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